


Of Socks and All Things According

by qanterqueen



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Jughead Jones, Betty Cooper & Jughead Jones Friendship, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friends to Lovers, Hard of Hearing Jughead Jones, Homeless Jughead Jones, Homelessness, I tagged suicide bc its talked about but no one actually dies, Jughead Jones Needs a Hug, Jughead Jones-centric, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Violence and Blood, Pining, Supportive Archie Andrews, and im not gonna give him one, archie andrews is PURE himbo material, archies dad is pure dilh (dad id like to have), as evidenced im awful at tagging to let me know if i need to throw more in here, dark themes, emotional and physical abuse because jugheads dad is a prick, god so much pining, i just couldnt be fucked to add all their names, i.... wish i could explain, self harm? in a way, suicide and suicidal ideation, the whole gangs here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-01-24 22:46:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21346006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qanterqueen/pseuds/qanterqueen
Summary: A very extensive analysis into Jughead Jones and a very sharp turn following S1E7, where everyone learns to adequately care about the fact that Jughead was homeless.
Relationships: Archie Andrews/Jughead Jones
Comments: 29
Kudos: 213





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So. Let me explain myself.  
Whenever I fly across the ocean to see the love of my life, we always end up watching a season or two of a very shitty show. Unfortunately, the pattern has also developed that we come to like said shitty show, and then pretend we like it for "ironic reasons"-- and then we stop kidding ourselves and come to truly and unabashedly like it.  
This time, the victim was Riverdale. And I started hating this greasy-haired asshole pompous git named Jughead Jones.  
And now he's my son.  
From what I've seen so far, Jughead's character has a lot of potential, and I'm going to explore that in this fic while also hitting him with a shit ton of projection and feelings. I think he could be a really interesting character-- as they all could be-- if I just took him and... shifted him slightly to the left.  
When we learned that he was homeless, I was like, "oh fuck. I've got a new character analysis to do". Then we learned he got taken in by Archie's dad, and I was like, "oh fuck, we're gonna explore how he deals being assimilated into a loving and caring home, and all the emotional trifle that comes with that after facing trauma for so many years! This is awesome!"  
Then we got, like, two episodes of them kinda mentioning that Jughead lived with the Andrews, and that.... was it. No sadness. No resolution. Which I really shouldn't have expected from the writers, but I can dream.  
However, naturally, I've got to fix this.  
This fic is going to take the events of Jughead going to live with the Andrews and explore them a lot more. I'm sayin' fuck it to whatever happened from that point after-- season 2? Season 3? Don't know her. It's about Jughead and his trauma now, and how Archie Andrew's dad is the dad that we always knew we needed.  
I'm almost sorry. Not really.

The inner pocket of his backpack held the essentials-- the photos he savored, what little money he owned, and a pair of socks. These things were his prized possessions, and he couldn't live without them. As if he could live without the rest of the clothes in his backpack and his schoolwork, but he couldn't live without a few printed out pixels and five dollars. It was a little silly if he tried to he subjective like that-- what's a piece of laminated paper to a pair of warm pants?-- but he still reserved that one little compartment for those three specific items, even if he thought it was useless. 

The socks, though, were not negotiable. 

Of course they held the benefits of keeping his feet safe and warm, but having socks in this tiny compartment was bigger than that. Sure, socks were an essential wardrobe piece, but they really weren't more useful than pants or a shirt. In fact, he'd gone many days without wearing socks or shoes voluntarily, and he'd been perfectly fine. Speaking logically, if he wanted to keep the most useful thing in that compartment, it wouldn't be socks-- it'd be underwear, or maybe even a spare pair of shoes.

Socks, though, were different to Jughead Jones.

One afternoon, one bitterly cold afternoon many years ago, Jughead had been over at Archie Andrew's house for a day of winter fun. Sledding, drinking cocoa, and ice skating. Winter had come to Riverdale, and through some sort of cosmic alignment the town had gotten a lot of snow overnight. Jughead had gotten a knock at his door in the morning-- a little ball of fire had been standing on his doorstep, just tall enough to ring the bell, and he was holding a ball of snow. Before Jughead could ask anything, he had gotten a face full it and the little fire’s laughter filled his ears the best it could.

Jughead was only in his pajamas, but he quickly grabbed his coat and a hat and heavy boots and ran out the door as fast as he could. He didn't tell anyone in his family, didn’t set up a curfew, didn’t even ask if his sister wanted to come. He didn't answer any questions. It was an easier time back then.

The morning was full of flushed, rosey cheeks and snow angels and forts and whatever else they thought to sculpt. Thinking back on it, Jughead's sure that it wasn't exactly the perfect day as he had thought it was at the time. He's sure that maybe his dad had called Mr. A at some point, yelling and asking where his son is. Maybe Archie had a cold and was ignoring it and Jughead caught it later. Maybe the cocoa wasn't hot enough and grew too cold too quick. 

He can't really think of anything at the moment, but he's sure it wasn't  _ perfect.  _ Jughead had never had  _ perfection _ , even though he grew to feel more and more like every day he chased the concept further and further (starting with the socks in his backpack).

There was a point in the afternoon, after they had come inside, that Mr. A convinced them both to change out of their soaked and frozen clothes. He said Jughead could borrow Archie's clothes and just give them back later (and Jughead never did because Jughead forgot, but Mr. A never asked for them, and Jughead never saw the problem in that until many years had passed). A pair of pajama pants, a warm sweater, and some socks were all the boys needed. 

The socks, naturally, became the issue.

Archie was digging around in his clean laundry pile (because heaven knows he didn't ever put his clothes away), and they were talking about something that Jughead couldn't ever remember later. Maybe it was about whatever they were going to watch on TV afterwards. Maybe whatever dinner was going to be in a few hours. Jughead's never really prided himself on his memory.

But at some point, clothes thrown around them on the cold wood floor, Archie had paused and sat back on his heels. He laughed a little, then threw up his hands. Jughead had watched the whole display and realized that five minutes had passed since Archie began and he had no idea what Archie was doing or trying to find. 

"Well, I guess we're not gonna have socks," Archie announced, interrupting himself. "I can't find any."

Jughead had owned maybe two or three pairs of socks at that time. He didn't really understand why this was such a big issue. 

"...Okay? So we'll go sockless."

"Nah," Archie said, standing and starting to rummage through his drawers. "Socks are important. If your feet are warm, the rest of your body is warm. Same with your head.”

Jughead wiggled his toes absently. That seemed credible enough to him. “Really?”

“Yeah. But it’s funny that socks are so important and I can never  _ find  _ them,” Archie continued, now going so far as to look behind his drawers. “They all get eaten up in the washing machine. I never have a clue where they are.”

Something had seemed askew to Jughead in that moment. Archie Andrews, the most perfect boy he’d ever met, with a house that always had fresh flowers on the table, couldn’t find his socks-- which were, as he said, the most important thing ever. There was something so mundane about it; boys like Archie Andrews didn’t  _ lose their socks,  _ especially if those socks were so important. Jughead only had three pairs of socks at best, which was six individual socks, and he knew where they were always. In fact, he probably could have found any one of his family member’s socks at any given time. 

Tidiness didn’t equal status, Jughead supposed.

And there was another little thing that stuck in his young mind-- just once, even though it was in this tiny and insignificant area, he had the upper hand on Archie Andrews.

There were many things that Archie Andrews had or did or saw or experienced that Jughead Jones could barely even fathom. 

It was a feeling of inadequacy that only grew as the boys aged, but even when they were kids Jughead knew to his core that he was less than Archie Andrews. From the tiniest things like clothing quality or quantity to the amount of trust he placed in his parents. Archie Andrews was the kind of boy that didn’t worry about price tags or closing his bedroom door. He didn’t keep secrets, and he had that distinct luxury of growing up and being in a place where he was reminded, constantly, that he was never alone. It took Jughead a very short amount of time to know that whatever he confided in Archie was going to travel to Archie’s dad, and after a few awkward conversations with him, Jughead learned when to keep his mouth shut or, at least, when to preface anything serious with  _ please keep this between us _ . He knew Archie was the kind of boy to not know why having an adult know  _ anything _ about Jughead or his feelings was an extremely mortifying thought.

Jughead would have liked to think that it wasn’t a one way street, and that Archie could put himself in Jughead’s shoes as much as Jughead could do the same. He could imagine that Archie could hold honest sympathy and empathy to Jughead’s situation, if he knew the full extent. Archie had probably gone a time where he had been hungry and his parents weren’t there to fix him food. He’d probably had a few relatives forget a few birthdays. He probably knew that  _ some _ things were out of his price range. But there comes a sort of intelligence when you’re on the outside looking in; you can see the full range of what there is, whether it be nothing or everything. 

Maybe it was less like a window and more like a two way mirror. Archie could only guess at what Jughead felt or how he lived, but Jughead watched every single thing played out in Archie’s life, whether he really wanted to or not.

Archie didn’t feel that shame and he could never imagine it. The feeling of being out of place and alone and surrounded by people who were supposed to be your family. The sounds of those people begging you to confide in them safely and knowing that they’re lying. He didn’t know what it was like to be so young and take every chance possible to be out of the house, and before leaving you must take everything valuable you own and either bring it along or hide it. 

However, now there was one thing that Jughead knew that Archie could also envision-- there was  _ one thing _ that sat Archie outside of that two way mirror, staring at Jughead like the other boy could possibly hold any worth, any semblance of status and assembly that he himself did not have--

It was that Jughead always knew where his socks were.

It’s hard to keep dignity when you’re homeless. Jughead had thought that he was never a prideful person, even when he had a home. There’s not a whole lot to bolster your ego when your home life is barely capable of providing you with new shoes every few years. 

Yet it only took a day of sleeping under a (sometimes metaphorical, sometimes literal) bridge for Jughead to realize that  _ everyone _ , even in the darkest of corners, has  _ some _ dignity. Some sort of self that they aren’t willing to let go. Some routine they’re not willing to give up. And, in some way, he tried to keep the tiniest bit of humanity himself by making a makeshift bed out of some old discarded mattress cushions and ripped shirts wherever he could find them.

There was a lot, though he had yet to really realize the full magnitude, that he had thrown away when he finally decided to leave home. It took so long for him to swallow the fact that everything he owned-- every routine that he could form from then on, every choice that he could make on his own, and every thing that he could ever barter with or place value in-- laid on the ground next to him, stuffed to the brim in a backpack he’d had for years. Simple luxuries, things that he had thought were granted to everyone in any type of home, were gone. 

It was a very small victory to say that Jughead kept his socks in a tiny pocket in that backpack. It’s hard to not get sucked into a dark, nihilistic hole when you’re homeless, he learned, and he didn’t try to really keep himself from it-- it was easy to see this victory as something so sad that it was almost suffocating. What does it  _ really _ mean to have your socks in order if you really only have one pair to keep track of and you carry your entire wardrobe with you at all times? What victory is  _ anything _ when you’re alone and homeless?

If he thought about it too much, he felt himself slipping. He allowed himself, just once, to get wrapped into the nihilism. But another awful thing about homelessness seemed to be that there was never anyone to catch him. There was never a single person to turn to.

Not that he really ever asked for help before he left home anyway. It took Archie  _ years _ of not-so-sharp observation to learn that Jughead often fought with his father and could use some companionable quiet afterwards. Archie never really even grasped that Jughead’s “often” fights were really more like “every day” fights. 

There was a limit to what you can do alone, Jughead found. To everyone, even himself. And this seemed to be it. Homelessness was his final frontier, and he could not handle it for just one moment.

So he didn’t think about things too much. He just took his small victories and kept his head down. He found his joy in knowing that he, Jughead Jones, knew where his socks were, and Archie Andrews could not say the same. 

It wasn’t fair to race himself against Archie, but that lack of competitiveness seemed to leave with Jughead’s dignity. It wasn’t often, and he didn’t actively try to find things that Archie slipped up on, but any time Jughead could come on top he’d feel a rare sort of self-pride. Grasping at straws was a game that thrived in homelessness.

In school, he found himself “winning” more often than not. Archie Andrews had a heart of gold and was so kind it was  _ disgusting _ sometimes, but he was not exceptionally booksmart.

“There’s no  _ way _ I can show dad,” Archie had mumbled one fine evening, flipping over a graded test. He had waited until lunchtime to actually look at his score. He said he needed the “emotional support”. Jughead really just could not handle Archie sometimes-- the endearing naivety was just… a lot on Jughead’s mind. In a good way, though.

“I’m sure it can’t be  _ that _ bad. What’d you get?” Betty had asked sweetly, and Jughead noticed that her and Veronica very pointedly were not looking at or showing off their own tests.

In the areas that Jughead could overtake Archie, Veronica and Betty picked up his slack. 

“I got a  _ two out of ten _ ,” Archie responded miserably, putting his head in his arms. Jughead tried not to preen. He got a seven, which wasn’t  _ great _ , but it was certainly better than a  _ two _ .

“I mean, it was a hard test!” Veronica put in helpfully. “I only got a five.”

Betty bit her lip. “Well, maybe I could help with whatever you’re not getting? I-- um-- did well.”

Jughead got a feeling that Veronica was lying and Betty had cheated, but would have got a perfect score anyway.

“What about you, Jug?” Archie asked from his arm cave. 

Jughead paused mid-bite. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday and he hadn’t slept more than an hour last night. He was not ready or willing to participate in any conversation today, and had  _ almost _ gotten by the whole lunch period not saying an entire word. He almost didn’t even catch the fact that Archie was talking to  _ him _ now.

“Um. It was fine,” he said, hoping that they could all forget about him quickly and let him continue eating.

“How are you so good at  _ everything _ ,” Archie sighed, as if Jughead had just told him that he not only aced the test but became the professor. 

Jughead shrugged, content to continue his silence, but Veronica wouldn’t let it go.

“Wait, you  _ aced _ it?” She asked, quickly adding, “Not that I don’t think you can, but  _ Betty  _ didn’t even get a ten.”

“Hey!”

Jughead shrugged again. His social meter was small at best on good days. He just wanted to sit in his self-pride and let it be. “I studied? Took good notes?”

“Can I see them?” Archie finally looked up, giving him that hopeless puppy dog look that Jughead absolutely hated.

“No,” it was curt, and kinda rude even by his standards, but Jughead really didn’t ever take notes. If Archie wanted to see his blank sheets of paper and the tiny doodles he did on them, then he could go right ahead. But, even then, whatever schoolwork he had was always stashed away in his locker. His backpack was always off limits to everyone. Archie, Veronica, and Betty were all deeply under the impression that his backpack was so stuffed because it held books, homework, and well-constructed notes.

In reality, it was full of another pair of jeans and a shirt or two. 

“Get Betty to help you. I’m not letting you copy,” he continued, earning a groan from Archie. “You need to  _ understand _ these things, not just memorize them.”

“I--”

“Tell me one thing you  _ understand _ , Archie Andrews.”

“I  _ understand _ that you’re a  _ jerk _ ,  _ Jughead Jones _ .”

The girls seated next to them laughed, and Archie joined, and Jughead didn’t.

Jughead just sat there in his pride and wondered if there was ever a day that would come where he didn’t have to deflect every little insignificant question.

That was another thing he became exceptionally well at; deflection.

He wasn’t great at lying. But deflection-- maybe even deception-- was the game that he always won.

After all, it was a game with incredible stakes. Either he deflected any questions, using cleverly placed words to get a laugh or a different query, or someone-- heaven forbid-- finds out the  _ truth _ about him. Whether that be that he’s homeless or that he’s just not a particularly good person who makes particularly good decisions. Jughead’s not sure which one is more shameful at this point.

It’s… sort of become vile, if he’s honest-- the deflection, that is. 

Betty doesn’t ask a lot of questions. She cares a lot, but there’s always something going on with her to discuss at the current moment. Always some bit in the newspaper to rewrite or whatever. Veronica’s the same; she’d jump on his case in a minute flat if she had any idea, but she just doesn’t know enough to ask the right questions. For all Veronica is aware of in her tiny, rich world, not a single person in  _ her life _ has ever had to go without a roof over their head.

Archie is the only one who should know better, and in some ways he does. 

Jughead’s not sure when the deflection became deceit, or when that deceit became  _ manipulation _ , but every time he has to smile when he shouldn’t it feels more and more like acid in his heart.

“Manipulation” had become the keyword in Jughead’s life ever since he was little.

_ Your mother is manipulating us, Juggie. _

_ It’s all just manipulation because he’s awful, you know this, right? _

_ Don’t let your father manipulate you into doing that, Juggie. _

_ You’re just like him. Did you know-- what you’re doing is manipulation. _

_ That’s a manipulation tactic. You’re manipulating me. _

_ Just like him. _

He’s terrified of the word and everything about it. 

But every time he makes Archie smile, erases whatever worry  _ that should be there  _ in Archie’s golden heart, makes him laugh about anything at all-- he’s running out of words to describe that. Sometimes he really does consciously think to himself-- sometimes he really just thinks  _ it’s gotten too real, time to make him laugh _ . He's not sure it's actual manipulation, but it sure as hell feels like it.

Jughead’s not a funny person, not really. He can’t pinpoint humor like other people can, and so he just deadpans whatever he’s got to say and that usually works in his favor. Silly Jughead-- he doesn’t understand how the world works, and that’s funny in and of itself. He’s lost inside his writing, his words that weave him a different world. Does he understand what’s funny? Does he understand the world at all?

It feels like he’s living a lie, and in a way he is. It feels like Archie doesn’t know him at all. It feels like they’ve been best friends since birth and Jughead got caught up in one day, just one lie, that spiraled until not a single person, not even his  _ best friend _ , even knows a single goddamn thing about him at all.

It feels like manipulation. It feels like Jughead Jones throwing Archie Andrews into an arena and making him fight a battle that he’s not even aware of, where the winning move is knowing exactly where one’s socks are.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What could he say to them, for the last time?  
What truly mattered to him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are, in fact, back at it again with the white Vans.  
This chapter will be dealing a lot with suicidal thoughts and suicide notes, though no actions.

Jughead's written a variety of things in his life, whether the topic was given by a teacher or by his own mind. Nonfiction essays on bugs or historical fiction stories about women in the twelfth century or tiny poems about Arbour Day or whatever. He'd written about things that carried no weight at all, and he'd written things where if just  _ one person _ looked just a bit closer at them, they'd be rightfully worried. He'd written about his own life experiences and he'd written about things he barely grasped-- he's even written up a few menus for Pops.

He has a whole separate folder on his laptop for pieces that were more  _ venting _ than anything. All of his other documents have specific titles so he can find them in the mess of his computer when he needs then. But the things that were more personal, a little more morbid than the light of day would like to see, he did not title. Instead, he kept them in a folder labeled "other".

He wrote about everything he'd never say aloud. How it feels to sleep under a bridge, like a literal troll in some fairytale storybook. The guilt of his secret-- which, at this point, is his  _ life _ \-- and how it claws at him every day relentlessly. The weight of his world pressing on his shoulders. The time his father yelled at him for so long that Jughead had fallen asleep, which was the first and last time that happened, as he was awoken by his very first slap to the face. He wrote about being in love with his best friend.

He wrote about his mother, too. She's the very thing he loathes to think about the most. And everything she's ever said to him-- all the pained smiles and the indifferent words-- is written down in a document in that folder. All the forced smiles and the awkward greetings, as if they barely knew each other at all, were laid gently into writing and 

It all hurt in a way that he'd never thought he'd ever feel. It hurt so bad, and there wasn't a single person in the world that understood.

It hurt a little less when he wrote it down, though.

Jughead Jones is a morbid person, really. There's something about murder and the dark corners of the human mind that fascinates him. The macabre and fucked up stories of the world excited him-- not in an I _ want to do this _ sort of way, in a  _ how could a human be so driven to do this?  _ sort of way. Blood and gore never made him squeamish. Broken bones protruding from skin never unnerved him. Nothing ever did, not really.

He'd also  _ thought _ some morbid things as well. It was a byproduct of the homelessness, and the fucked up family life, piled on top of whatever normal teen angst he would have gotten anyway. Being alone isn't a thing that  _ anyone _ should go through-- it fucks with the mind and breaks down some common walls that everyone should always have up. What did Jughead care anymore, should he think some fucked up thought or do some fucked up thing to himself? There was never anyone to judge him. Never anyone to care or to keep him in line. Not a single person to ask him to think twice.

With all that said, though, Jughead Jones had never written a suicide note.

He'd thought about doing it before-- less as a "practical" (for lack of a better word) thing and more as a commentary on his life and a way to explore his psyche. There weren't many people he knew, and there weren't many people that cared about him, and there were  _ fewer _ people that  _ he _ cared about in general. But the people he cared about, he cared for deeply. 

What could he say to them, for the last time?

What  _ truly _ mattered to him?

What could he write?

He pointedly did not think of he other reasons-- the more obvious and common reasons-- one would write a suicide note. Especially after he became homeless. Though it was for those reasons why he  _ didn't  _ write one.

He was a morbid person, but writing a suicide note finally crossed that line of taboo. It was  _ too _ fucked up. Too depressing. To real.

Too manipulative, in a way. It was a cry for help that was a little too loud for him.

He also just knew he'd never find the right words. He'd have no idea what to say.

It was the one topic, the one piece of writing, that he found himself at a total loss for words.

Mostly because it was just so impossible to be  _ final. _ Nearly all of his relationships with other people were messy at best. He would have to write something like a suicide  _ essay _ , not just a note. His father alone could easily take up ten pages, and that would be if Jughead didn’t cite specific examples or anecdotes. 

His view on everyone’s relationship always changed. One moment he found his father insufferable, and wanted nothing more than to beat him to a pulp, and the other moment he felt such sympathy to the man that he’d find himself teary eyed. For his mother, Jughead felt such venom and spite for her choices, and he thought he’d never be able to forgive her for what she’d done. On the other hand, though, he would have ran down the same path if he had a choice.

Betty was as overbearing as she was the most caring person he’d ever met. She also meant so much more to him than he cared to admit. Veronica scared him to death, but he admired how much she tried to be a better person than she was. He admired her ability to change as much as he envied it.

Archie… 

Well, Archie was an awful case.

He knew exactly what he could say to Archie Andrews.

There was something about everyone else he knew-- Jughead could never stand to insult others, not like the misconstrued insults he would have to write in this suicide note. There was no apologizing if he made Betty cry, not then, and she’d never be able to look past what could have been criticism to the complementary parts. Nobody could look past the sad parts, either-- basically, Jughead knew that everyone would find a way to mishandle his words, since they’d be so open ended and weird and confusing, and he wouldn’t be there to set things straight.

But he knew his relationship with Archie, down to every last vowel and consonant. He never had to think of what he'd say to him for the last time.

First is that he never hated Archie Andrews. Not even after Grundy. He did, admittedly, try very, very hard to hate Archie Andrews many times.

He was jealous. Always. From the time they were children until his dying day, Jughead Jones was extremely jealous of Archie Andrews. And while Jughead never hated him, it was much easier to pretend he did than to deal with the unfortunate reality that Archie had much more than him, and that was truly neither of their faults.

Second is that Jughead’s constant moodiness and quiet nature was never Archie Andrew’s fault. It was really out of both of their hands. Jughead, pushing aside all the drama in his life, was naturally just a quiet and reserved guy, and he had some personal problems, and he doubted he could change that now. Sometimes Archie blamed it on himself-- he'd complain that Jughead was always in a bad mood around him. Which wasn't true-- there just wasn't anyone else Jughead wanted to be around when he  _ was _ in a bad mood.

Third is that, throughout every single little petty fight and every time they went days without talking and every time one of them forgot a birthday-- Jughead's always liked Archie Andrews.

Actually, that last bit wouldn't make it into the note. These were to be the  _ last words _ that Jughead would say to Archie, and it would be a waste of space to say that he  _ liked _ Archie Andrews. 

If he was being honest, and if he was being final, Jughead would say that he had always been in love with Archie Andrews.

The details were… a little more messy than that. He's not quite sure when he realized he was in love with Archie. What year it had been, or if there was a specific  _ moment _ \-- it was just something that happened, slowly but surely, no matter how much Jughead tried to dig his heels in the dirt about it. He just found himself drawn in-- something about Archie made him feel like a dying man in the face of the sun. 

There was hope that he could see in Archie-- hope for them and hope for himself. There was a future there that wasn't just misery and pain. Archie was a breath of fresh air, and he was an escape, and he was everything Jughead needed.

There was a small part of Jughead that had questioned, once he had stopped groveling in denial, if this was even love. He'd never had a crush on  _ anyone _ before-- and why now, after they'd known each other for so long? Why not earlier? 

Was he in love with Archie, or was he in love with the idea of him? 

The all-American boy. The golden smile and the flaming hair. The perfect teen heartthrob.

He had a big house. A dog, even-- Jughead's always wanted a dog of his own. He had a father that was so nice that Jughead felt himself intimidated. 

There was a whole different setting that came with Archie Andrews. A whole different, brighter world that Jughead had never truly been a part of. In that house, where the sun always shone through the windows, there was no room for a trailer full of empty beer bottles. There was no malice and seething hatred. There was no deception or manipulation. Jughead was no longer homeless-- he was a boy, a teenager, and he was playing video games and eating chips liberally and he was happy.

(Was that the only thing left of Jughead? His homelessness?)

He was scared. Maybe he was just latching on to the first salvation, and maybe that just so happened to be Archie.

How awful of him. How manipulative and fucked up and completely awful of an already fucked up and completely awful human being.

It was easier to feel that way-- as if Jughead’s brain had made a mistake, and just added a notch to the bedpost of denial. It was a lot easier and fit a lot better into the narrative if he  _ was _ just using Archie as some sort of scapegoat. 

But then he made Arche laugh. And he made Archie smile. And he shared what little food he had with him, and he shoved him playfully, and Archie fell asleep on his shoulder after a football game one night.

Perhaps Archie was more than his misery. Perhaps he really was in love with Archie.

He didn't tell anyone else. How could he? In some way, despite everything, he wasn't even sure about it himself-- and he also felt as though he already had too much on his plate already to try to attempt a romance. How was he supposed to look nice if he lived through his backpack? What was he supposed to give Archie, the boy who had it all? What was the appeal of Jughead-- did he have any appeal at all? 

He had nothing to give-- which was, really, his biggest problem.

He had written a little paragraph, once, sitting in the backseat of Mr. Andrew's car one night. They had been leaving school, and Archie had offered to have Jughead over for the night, since it was a Friday. This might have been before Jughead left home, or maybe he had already been gone for a little bit-- for whatever reason, Jughead had accepted the offer.

There had always been this feeling of solidarity and  _ home _ that he had only gotten at the Andrew's. They really made him feel welcome in that home full of sun-- like he belonged, like he was  _ wanted _ and had something nice to contribute. And in that backseat, he had realized very suddenly, listening to the two in front of him talk about this or that, that the feeling was all wrong.

Sometimes, in the early morning when he can't sleep and the cars on the street are too loud and the floor is too cold, he'll pull out his phone and reread what he wrote. 

_ (Every time ive gone where i am not known I think to myself that I'm finally okay, Im finally home. But maybe it's that I've fooled myself Rather well. Maybe it's that I've told myself that those who can love me Are only those who don't know me.) _

He's never told a single person about his living situation, or what his father had said to him or done to him before, or how he  _ really _ felt about being the person he is, or all the dark thoughts that kept him up when the world could not. He's not told anyone about his mother, and about how much his heart hurts every day. The hopelessness, the loneliness-- it all stays in him, boiling and searing at the very surface of his skin. It’s overpowering, and there’s no way to let it go.

And he'd liked to think that those parts of him weren't  _ all _ of him. That he wasn’t just made of nights slept under the stars and of morbid, awful thoughts. He wanted to think that he wasn’t just made out of such an intense shade of red. That there was gentleness in him at all seemed more and more laughable-- he wanted to believe that he wasn’t just  _ hatred _ , absolute and complete  _ hatred _ and depression and everything black and bleak. 

But these days, that seemed to be the case.

There was less and less to smile about. He was  _ tired _ . Tired of being himself. Of always having this well of emotions, long dried up but instead covered in knotted and messy cobwebs so dense that it was impossible to even see the bottom. He was running, always; any excuse to stay in school longer than he needed to he took, and once he could loiter no more he jumped from public place to public place. There was nothing poetic anymore, not that there ever was to begin with, and he found that he could barely appreciate the small victories he held onto so tightly. 

And if anyone  _ knew _ … if the  _ Andrews _ knew.

Jughead was already a hard person to swallow. It was hard to keep up with him, he knew. The attitude, the personality, the clothes, the  _ life _ and the  _ past _ \-- everything. He'd been told many times by his father in many drunken rages-- he was awkward, and angry, and spiteful, and stubborn, and  _ really, it’s no wonder no one wants to talk to you. _

If people knew what bothered him, what plagued him at the front of his mind, all the flies that filled his head with their incessant buzzing and noise, then they'd know  _ him _ .

He didn't need to be told twice that it would be  _ too much _ . The Andrews barely liked what they saw to begin with. Archie's father couldn't have, in Jughead's opinion, tightened his lip more. Jughead couldn't have stood to be overbearing. To take up more of their time than he already had.

Some things, in his opinion, were better left unsaid.

So he never told the Andrews about his position. He never asked a single person for help.

And he never, ever, wrote a sucidie note.

He did start to write one, though. 

It was something incredibly rough, written in a janitor’s closet tucked inside a stairway at the school. It was a few lines, just to start, just to see what his brain could run with. He crossed out many sentences-- there was no need to write an awkward entrance, or to leave his possessions to anyone, or to try to open the note with any  _ Hi, I’m Jughead, and I’m also dead _ .

Once he started, it all seemed too overwhelming. The premises became too long, the disclaimers and the greetings of every new subject became too  _ anxious _ sounding, and before he could even get on a second paragraph he was ready to give up. There was no  _ best way _ to write a suicide note-- there was nothing that could be written poetically or in some prose that would make it seem beautiful and like some goddamn indie movie that only showed at local venues. Death, especially his own, was not beautiful.

There was nothing to string together. Nothing to say  _ finally _ . Even the words that he was so sure he’d finally have the courage to say to Archie, finding only that feeling paired with the finality of death, fizzled and died on his fingertips. What if some things changed, after he died? What if his death went unnoticed, and what if all these words and feelings and  _ Betty, you were the only reason I felt okay sometimes  _ and  _ Veronica, you were the vision of everything I wanted  _ and  _ Mother, you broke my heart _ all fell on deaf ears? What if he stressed and spent years writing this, trying to find what the rest of his life could not say, and not a single person cared at all?

After all, where was he? 

Jughead was in a janitor’s closet, and not even the janitor knew it.

No one did.

Jughead quietly closed his laptop, the document still open so that it might taunt him when he next used his laptop and the first thing he’d see was a goddamn suicide note no one cared for. It didn’t make a noise as he slipped it off his lap or set it gently upon his jacket, curled up so that it might pretend to be a pillow on the floor. Last time Jughead had checked, it was a little past midnight.

He was shaking, Jughead noticed rather slowly. His hands were shaking.

He needed to get up and move.

It was a little dumb of him to leave his whole setup in his little closet. Wherever he moved, he kept all of his things on him. He didn’t ever need someone to run across his backpack and put two and two together, even if he was very sure no one else was in this empty highschool this late at night.

The weight of the world pressed against his shoulders, always, but sometimes the weight of his backpack was heavier. Sometimes it did him a little good to set it down once in a while.

The empty classrooms were a little inviting-- it was a pastime of his to snoop around teachers’ desks and just look at stuff. The next day’s plans or graded papers or just little notes of groceries to buy later. It was mundane, so domestic that it made someone like Jughead feel bad sometimes. Tonight was one of those “sometimes”, so he moved on to his second favorite pastime.

The school’s designated  _ Blue and Gold _ room was everything Jughead ever craved in a space. It was a little dusty, a little unused, but not so much so that it felt stuffy. There were corners and areas filled with things that no one bothered with anymore, and he’s sure that if he was only a little bit handier he could fix the coffee machine that hadn’t run in months. It was like a baby version of every “grandpa’s study” he’d ever seen in movies. There were no old, antique and dusty books in large oak bookshelves, but he could pretend the folders in rusted cabinets contained something much larger and sinister than old, unimportant records.

There was, however, an untidiness to the room that irked him. Grandpa studies were cool and had charm, but the old books always had a cleanliness to them. No one particularly cared or placed value in antique books that weren’t well kept. The real money lay in books that were almost as old as America, but as well preserved as the day they were written. The files in the old forgotten newspaper room were full of secrets and grades that no longer mattered, but they  _ could _ matter, eventually, to someone. 

So Jughead would make sure that they held the intrigue that came with preservation. 

That, and he tended to clean when he was stressed. And Jughead Jones was always stressed, but he hardly ever had enough to his name-- enough tangible things-- to clean. The  _ Blue and Gold _ room was his project as much as the  _ Blue and Gold _ newspaper was. 

He used to clean a lot, when he lived at home, but after a while the habit fizzled and died. He liked to keep his living spaces tidy, but the trailer had long since  _ not _ been his living space, even before he left. He used that place to sleep and to grab a quick breakfast and leave before even making eye contact with its other residents. That place wasn’t a home, and it hadn’t been for a while, and he wasn’t in the game of doing favors and tidying for people who would trash his work not a day later with empty beer bottles and thrown vases and stained shirts.

But. He digresses.

It wasn’t really like the school was his  _ home _ . Jughead lived and slept there mostly, for sure, but it was still a school. It was still a place to fear and a place to sneak around in and to be yelled at and bullied. But the  _ Blue and Gold _ room was where he felt  _ okay. _ It was a reprieve from everything. It was where he and his friends talked about everything that mattered and everything that didn’t. It was… it was sorta all he had left.

So he found solace by rooting around it, using the cleaning supplies he stole a long time ago from the janitors closet, and cleaning it. Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly secure and brave, he’d play some music on his laptop. 

That was something else he missed about home-- when he still quantified it as a home. He could play music. Watch a movie or whatever. And he’d do it in the  _ living room _ .

When his mother and Jellybean eventually left, they took all the security with them. Suddenly no one was there to yell at his father for making fun of his son’s interests-- after all, what grown man would make fun of a children’s T.V. show?

His father took over the T.V.. Then the radio. Then the living room. Then everything else.

But the old newsroom in the school was Jughead’s. And he waited, for a while, to make sure that it was before he started cleaning it. No use cleaning something that was temporary. No use in tidiness for other people who’d let it run to waste eventually.

But it had been a solid few months, and no one had reclaimed the room, so he got to work on his fine and dreary night, his hands still shaking from his earlier thoughts. He’d cleaned the windows the other day, and mostly cleared off the couch. Everything had its place, and he found so much comfort in order these days. Tonight he’d work on the little table next to the couch. Some files to order and some papers to go through and determine which were useless and which held some fun secrets.

It was thankless work, besides easing his own mind, even though Betty valued cleanliness and tidiness as much as he did. She always looked perfect and pristine, not a single hair out of its place. Her ponytail was as high as her standards, and every odd time Jughead’s ever been in her bedroom, it’s looked like a copy of some “sophisticated teen girl”’s room right out of a magazine. She even made her bed every morning. 

Jughead didn’t really like being in her house. It was alienating. It made him feel like  _ he _ was the mess. He was the dirt under her nails, but he would make sure he wasn’t there to stay. 

She liked the newsroom. She liked the oldness of it; the same antique fantasy that Jughead had was not lost on her. But she was never really in the room as long as Jughead was-- the room could only be a table in the center and a lamp in the corner of it and she’d be happy. This wasn’t her home, not by a long shot, and so she (rightly) wasn’t inclined to treat it as such.

She would make tiny remarks when Jughead had to tell a little white lie--  _ nah, I just decided to come in a little early, get some work done _ \-- that the room looked a little nicer.  _ Is that you cleaning or the janitors _ ?

The smaller stuff was Jughead’s doing, as far as Betty was concerned. He tied up, and he put some files in their places. He moved stuff around, just ‘cause his father was big on tidiness, of course, and their whole house was spotless and  _ I dunno, Betty, I guess I just like stuff being tidy. I don’t like stuff being messy _ .

The bigger things-- like that time that Betty came in and the windows were cleaned or the rust was scrubbed off the filing cabinets-- wasn’t Jughead. After all, he didn’t have  _ that _ much time on his hands.

Much like everything else, it didn’t bother him  _ that _ much.

Sometimes Archie will ask him very blatantly how he’s doing. He’ll say, with a mix of confusion and trepidation, that he really has no clue what Jughead does after school anymore. Isn’t that weird, Jughead? 

And sometimes Jughead will feed him just enough. He mostly does homework. Reads and writes. Boring stuff, really, and most of the time it’s not a lie. He just doesn’t say  _ where _ he does all this stuff.

And then, sometimes, Archie will smile and ask him what he’s been reading, or what he’s writing, or how work is going (Jughead can never remember the status of his fake job-- was he employed last week? Who thinks he’s still working, and who thinks he has a job interview in a few days?). And they’ll talk for a little bit, almost like a real conversation, and Jughead will ask what Archie’s been up to even if he already knows.

And it feels real, sometimes. Talking to Archie Andrews. Conversations like those feel like maybe Jughead’s mind doesn’t have to be all-encompassed by his homelessness and his depression and just when, exactly, he’s going to eat or sleep next. Sometimes he can get his head off the money he owes Pop on his tab, and he can just talk to his best friend, Archie Andrews.

He really, really cares about Archie Andrews. More than Archie Andrews could ever know.

And sometimes, after the topic slows to an end and Archie has to run off to be here or there, he’ll tell Jughead that he doesn’t mean to be weird, but  _ it was nice to catch up. I’m glad we had this conversation _ .  _ I get worried sometimes. About you. _

And Jughead will smile, every single time, and wonder aloud that if Archie Andrews didn’t hurry off already, he will surely be late for family dinner.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My poor emo son. Next chapter will be more story and less narration, I promise! Shit will get done!


	3. Chapter 3

Fred Andrews was probably the one person that actively scared the shit out of Jughead whenever he saw him. 

His father scared him as well, of course, but there were different stages of fear. The reality of Jughead’s life was one that established a fear in all adults, really. A fear in authority and power and a fear of a deep voice that was much deeper and louder than his own. There was also a specific breed fear that came with his father passed out on the couch that was almost imperceptible. It was passive, creeping at the back of his head like a nagging soreness, and it didn’t do much. It was just a little whisper at the back of his mind that suggested  _ what if he were to wake up, and catch you sneaking home at the earlier hours? _ This fear was manageable and tiny and easily tucked away with the fear that came with homework past its due date. It was the daily routine and the  _ normal  _ that Jughead learned to classify as just his own. It was what he slept with, it was what he ate breakfast with, and it was what, in a way, quelled his anxiety. His father asleep on the couch, the sleeping dragon of a kingdom of cheap garbage and leather, was predictable. It was routine, and it was manageable, and it was okay.

To come home and see his father awake and standing, his leathery wings spread to their full span, meant trouble. But the slumbering beast meant peace in the land. 

However Fred Andrews, every time, was someone that made his heart freeze and his mind race no matter what.

Fred Andrews was everything that Jughead didn’t know how to operate. He was the dragon with no wings, the courageous lion that chased away the big bad wolf and his set ways. Every situation that Jughead didn’t normally think about, every little move that he didn’t plan to calculate in his father, Fred Andrews would fulfill. Fred was a minefield for Jughead-- he had no idea where he was stepping, or what moves to make, or what to say. He’d take gambles in every conversation and in every conversation he was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Every move and word resulted in  _ worry _ from Fred. In pity. In sadness. In that special crinkle around his eyes, the kind that meant  _ I know you’re hurting, and it’s okay, and I’m here for you.  _ It was a dangerous look, one of future promises and things no one else in the room could account for or predict. 

Jughead tried to avoid Fred, especially as he grew older. There was something that terrified him in that man, and he never wanted to solve the puzzle. He would be more than okay to let it crumble out and die, and to think of Fred as just an eccentric man that no one, not even his own son, could figure out.

Fred knew much, much more than Jughead did. About the world, and the kindness that could be in it, and even about Jughead. And he exercised this knowledge more than Jughead would have liked. 

Last night hadn’t been good to Jughead. There was something about freaking out over death and then trying to go through school acting as if nothing was wrong and life would carry on  _ as it always would _ and he  _ could not stop it _ and  _ what if it meant nothing, and my death would go unmarked, and I would fizzle away _ ,  _ and fuck I'm homeless and no one cares- _ \- something about those thoughts made  _ high school _ real inconsequential. Real, real useless. Paired with sleeping on the floor of a janitor’s closet? It was a wonder he even said “good morning” to Betty in the hallway.

Archie, God bless him, noticed this. Unlike everything else that Jughead ever said or did or insinuated, Archie could always tell when Jughead had a “bad day” (but, coincidentally, all these bad days that Archie could catch were the days that had nothing to do with Jughead’s father). He could always tell when things in Jughead’s mind were two steps to the left.

It was harder for Jughead to respond. Harder than usual to hear anything, or make a response that was a little longer than “uh, yeah”. Harder for him to motivate himself to stand up and go get food that ended up tasting like ashes in his mouth.

It was something that first started happening when Jughead was little, and it only got worse as time went on. It elevated to a whole new direction when Jellybean and his mother moved out, and once again when he became homeless, but Jughead’s not sure that Archie had noticed that particular pattern. 

There was a protocol for days like these, Jughead supposed. Archie always sorta had a pattern about him-- there was nothing about Archie that Jughead couldn’t predict-- and there was definitely a few things that he would do to let Jughead know that  _ he _ knew that today was a  _ day _ .

The first was bringing coffee to him in the morning. 

It didn’t really do a lot to quell with the anxiety, or the hunger that constantly gnawed at him, but every addict has his poison.

Sometimes, on these days, not even Jughead will notice that it’s a  _ day _ until Archie is suddenly handing him a cup and somewhere, distantly, someone is saying  _ I thought you looked like you needed coffee.  _

It’s only a  _ day _ , truly, if Jughead doesn’t respond. Doesn’t know what to say. He just nods and moves on-- the worst days are the ones where Jughead doesn’t even hear him, and he just nods and takes the cup and wonders distantly what was in it.

It’s harder to wake up on these days. Harder to set a quiet alarm so early in the morning, early enough for him to leave his janitor’s closet or to crawl in from the streets and clean up a bit. Harder to see himself in the mirror he’d find. He was all angles now, almost two dimensional save for the shadows that loomed under his eyes. It was harder, these days, to be angry. To let some bitterness fuel him, as it did most days, as he venomously (and unjustly) thought,  _ why did no one do anything? Why has no one noticed? _

On days like these, he was too tired to be angry. He could look in the mirror and see anything it so chose to show him and not a single thing would float through his mind.

After that he’d trudge through school on his last dying brain cell, trying so desperately to think of what to do that afternoon where he could just wander and not have to  _ exist _ . But he was trying even harder to make it look like he’s not tired and overwhelmed and thinking of his bed that night and how it will be different than yesterday’s. Anything that happened in class was less exciting that the monotonous sight of clouds rolling through the windows right next to the seat in the back he’d park himself at. 

He’d try not to think. Try to join in conversations at lunch-- try to at least eat anything at all, actually. On days like these, the thought of food made him nauseous. Made his stomach churn like nothing else could. Sometimes even the smell made his head hurt, and he’d slink away to the library before he’d even set foot in the cafeteria.

The school day would come to a close before he could stop it, and as the time grew closer and closer to two o’clock, his anxiety grew worse and worse. If he wasn’t kidding himself, he knew he had no money left. Every time he stepped foot in the door of Pop’s diner he was terrified that  _ today would be the day _ and Pop would pull him aside and ask for the countless dollars that must have been on his tab at this point. Diners didn’t even usually keep tabs, especially not for mopey homeless kids that showed no promise of monetary compensation-- it was all the goodness of Pop’s heart that let Jughead keep a tab, and while he didn’t want to doubt the other man’s hospitality, he knew that the kindness would have to end eventually.

At that point, as his fixed gaze on the clock magnified his constantly anxious and tapping fingers, Archie will make an offer to Jughead. And though Jughead will want nothing more than to be alone, the only company he feels being the thoughts that stick like acid to the walls of his brain, he will accept. The offer, the  _ Archie-Andrews-brand-promise _ , of video games and pizza was so enticing, so absolutely heavenly, that it would have been a sin to say no.

And Jughead will wait, and Archie will get gas for the drive home and they will set off. He will be at Archie’s house after fifteen minutes (with whatever traffic Riverdale has to offer), the truck rumbling softly as they pull into the driveway and Archie says, a little awkward in the complete silence, that  _ well, we’re-- uh-- here _ . 

And Jughead will take his backpack, his whole entire world resting and contained behind a single zipper that he’s thought about padlocking before, and go inside the house. Following the sunshine boy, he’ll enter the sunshine realm, and a dog will start barking at his feet and jumping up on him until Fred Andrews, a being just short of being entirely comprised of sunshine, will hold him back.

And… and then Jughead will wake up. Wake up from his weird fantasy. Standing where he had last blinked. 

Staring out the exit doors to the school, feeling people push past him as he stares blankly at the school buses waiting to take people home. In his hands, long since grown cold is a cold cup of coffee. The clock reads 2:00 p.m..

Jughead blinked. Once, twice. Someone shoved his backpack a bit. Someone else laughed rather loudly.

He’d never been invited to Archie’s on days like this, not recently. Archie brought him coffee, but he did every morning. Or sometimes Jughead would just steal his leftovers. Jughead’s never had to haul his backpack into Archie’s truck, and he’s never had to justify to anyone why it was so heavy.

Maybe, once, a few years ago, Archie would have offered to take him home. Would have really noticed how Jughead hesitated at the end of the day, lost and alone, and would have done something about it. He did, previously-- before the whole summer went down, they would always hang out at Archie’s house, never Jughead’s. They’d play video games or wander around the woods and when it came time for dinner they’d order a whole pizza just for themselves. It was nice. It was a needed reprieve.

These days that would have been a bit awkward, wouldn’t it?

So Jughead shook his head a bit, trying to clear the fog and painfully wonderful memories away ( _ Alone _ . What an ugly word.), and started walking.

He didn’t want to see anyone today, which sounded relatively and deceptively easy, considering he was homeless. However, as much as Pop’s was a private reprieve, it was also a popular hangout spot, and everyone who was ever anyone would be there. It was hard to escape in a small town when every corner held a friendly neighbor and a  _ hey, what’re you up to? _

Though, on the other hand, Pop’s had heating. And the weather report for this afternoon hadn’t looked great.

As he walked further and further away from the school, praying that no one would stop him, he listed his options and tried not to think of them at all. No pros or cons today-- no letting himself wonder what the benefits of sleeping in the school’s janitor closet versus a park bench was. He went off feeling and feeling alone, because if he had a single thought then that would lead to  _ more _ thoughts, and he just couldn’t have that.

The library was nice, but closed early on Fridays. 

He felt a moment of fear, halting temporarily and glancing back at the school, now a bit smaller and less like a looming monster and more like a building.

If he slept in the school tonight, he likely wouldn't be able to escape if need be. And he had no way of predicting who would be where in the school on the weekend. He had forgotten that it was a Friday.

No school, then. No Pop's. 

Maybe another coffee shop?

No, he didn't have money for another coffee shop. If he couldn't really afford Pop's three dollar coffees, he's not gonna afford a fancier six-dollar-smalls. 

So. Wandering it was. Trying to gain inspiration as he went. 

Jughead set out, and he ignored how his feet hurt already, and he did not think of his room at the trailer, trashed but open. Warm. Inviting. Christ, it even had a real bed.

Sometimes, he'll push away his bad thoughts and his venom and his awful mentality about life by reminding himself that  _ he _ did that.  _ Jughead ran away _ , he was not banished or kicked out or cut out of his family's life like a coupon in a newspaper.

_ Jughead ran away _ , he was exaggerating how bad things had been.

_ Jughead ran away _ , he was taking things for advantage.

_ Jughead ran away _ , he was being dramatic. Angry and unruly and impulsive and irresponsible. 

_ Jughead ran away _ , he had absolutely no right to complain. He knew the consequences.

Even so, he thought as he wandered deeper into the small town, he didn't want to be alone today. He didn't want to walk. He didn't want to scope out a spot, a corner of an alley that was a little darker than others, where no one would look at what tragedy lay in it. He wanted to matter today, wanted to make an impression to someone. To go off autopilot and to just think of  _ anything _ other than surviving. He wanted to have the energy to be mad and to scream and to feel  _ anything _ .

He didn’t want to talk to a single person, but he didn’t want to be alone.

Jughead found himself slowing to a stop, all the fire inside him immediately drenched. He had made his way to the main road in town, just a little less than a mile from whatever this awful small town could call “downtown”. It was winter, which meant the sun was already setting. He could see his breath already appear before him. Pop's was about ten minutes away by bike and twenty on foot. 

His backpack was heavy. Too heavy to carry for an afternoon. 

He pulled out his phone, knowing it'd likely have a percentage less than advantageous and that he could maybe use what was left to look up some local park he'd never been to or whatever. 

It was on 63%. And it had a missed call from his favorite day-terror, Fred Andrews.

In fact, Jughead had just missed it. The call was from three minutes ago. He must have not heard it.

Which was not usual, not by any means. Fred had never called him, not in the however-many-years he and Archie had been friends. Usually his son could relay anything that needed to be said, or Fred would call Jughead's dad about whatever else. If Jughead and Fred  _ ever  _ needed to speak alone or about something even vaguely secretive, then it'd be done when Archie was in the shower and Jughead would be sleeping over, coincidentally milling around in an awkward silence that could be filled by important information. 

He really only had Fred's number for emergencies. Which was kinda also weird if Jughead thought about it, but he didn't ever use it so he didn't ever think about it. There'd never really  _ been _ an emergency. Or, at least, not one in Jughead's life that could only be solved by Fred Andrews.

Which still wasn't the case, even today. Fred called  _ him _ . Not the other way around.

If it wasn't so initially and immediately weird and surprising and offsetting, Jughead would have been more concerned.

"Fred?" He had picked up after the second ring. It was only 2:30, and if memory served correct then Fred should have been at work still. He shouldn't have been able to hear his phone ring over the sounds of his normal day-to-day construction. What odd things one notices in a confusing situation.

"Oh, hey! Jughead, hey."

Fred sounded pleasantly surprised and a tad confused, which made Jughead smile a bit. "Uh, hey. What's up, Mr. Andrews?"

There was silence, then, "Uh, how you doin'? I haven't heard from you in-- in a bit."

There were muffled sounds in the background that mixed with his words a bit. Phone calls were some of the worst things to listen to, especially if the other person was doing something. It was obvious that Fred was still at work, which meant that Jughead would have to pay attention a little closer.

"I-- good?" That was a far cry from the truth, but it was the appropriate response to  _ anything _ an adult asked. And, because he wasn't too hot on small talk today, he went straight in for a lovely, brash, "You called me earlier?"

"Yeah," and Fred sighed. Instantly every nerve went on high alert in Jughead’s body. Sighing was not good with adults.  _ Especially _ not with Fred Andrews. Sighing meant  _ I am tired, but I have to say this _ . Sighing meant something  _ important  _ was about to be said. 

The only things important about Jughead anymore, the only things noteable and talk-worthy, were all horrible. All better left in the shadows. 

But maybe he was just anxious. Maybe this wasn't a big deal.

"Yeah, I did. I just-- Uh-- look, why don't you come over?"

This was nothing but a big deal.

"Is-- is everything alright, Mr. Andrews?" He wanted to add in some joke, some  _ what, did Vegas get arrested? Need help paying bail?  _ But his heart was caught in his throat and the world was dulling around him, shapes taking more of a two dimensional quality to help.  _ Why don’t you come over? _

"Yeah, Jug, everything's fine. I'd-- i just-- I just would like to talk. Alright? Nothin'-- it's nothin' to worry yourself over. I get off work in an hour, but you can head over now if you want. Just let yourself in. I think Archie has practice ‘til five today, but… y'know. Help yourself to whatever's in the fridge."

No matter what the context, or who it was, or whatever topic at all,  _ I would like to talk _ was never good, nor was any iteration of it.

_ We need to talk _ because  _ Jellybean and I are leaving _ .

_ I want a word with you _ because  _ you make me sick _ .

_ Let's talk _ because  _ I went through your laptop and Jughead, what is this shit? _

"Jug? You there?"

Fred knew. Fred knew about  _ everything _ and this was the worst  _ we need to talk _ that could have happened.

Jughead swallowed, not really hearing Fred anymore. He nodded, then with another speed bump of panic remembered Fred couldn't see him do so. "U-um, ye-yeah. Yeah. Uh, later, okay."

That wasn't an answer. But there  _ was _ no answer. His instinct used to be, in situations like these, to run.  _ We need to talk _ was never good, and it was not good when his mom and sister left and it was never good when Archie asked him about how much he _ 's  _ yawning and how skinny he's getting  _ in the middle of the cafeteria  _ and it's not even good when Veronica tells him  _ I got Betty a surprise birthday gift, don't say anything _ .

"Hey, if you've got something else going on, it's not really a pressing matter, I just--"

"No, no," Jughead found myself mumbling. These conversations went easier if he didn't try to fight. Just nod and go along. That way nothing could be used against him later. "No, I'm free all afternoon, I'll-- I'll head over now."

There was a very heavy silence from Fred, and God how Jughead just wanted him to sigh or, best case scenario, get it over with. Just start yelling, start digging up all the disgusting things Jughead does and calls _surviving_. He's been homeless and God, the _pitifulness _of the situation and how it's just _dreadful_. What a fragile case, what a calamity, what a _teen_ _runaway_ and a _joke_ and God, how bad does he think he has it? This is _nothing_, an overreaction, and--

And--

And his hands drop his phone.

"Fuck, shit," Jughead immediately snatched it from the ground, too dazed to even be grateful it didn't crack. "Sorry--"

"Jug? Everything okay?"

Fred's good with this stuff. With anxiety and panic and whatever.  _ Panic attack _ seems so strong of a phrase, so whatever this is Jughead knows Fred could help him through. He has, before, once. 

But he felt like one more word out of him, one more attempted utterance at a lackluster reply, would spill all his guts over the pavement. Metaphorically and literally.

So he cleared his throat. There was a buildup in it. His hands shook. Badly. He had to hold his phone with two hands. "Yeah. Yup. I'll… I'll see you later."

More of that heavy silence. Jughead could have screamed. There was something Fred wasn’t saying, something so clearly on the tip of his tongue, and Jughead would have to wait an agonizing hour to hear it. 

"... Okay. I'll see you later, Jug."

And then the phone was quiet. 

Even still, he stood there, holding it pressed to his ear a little too hard, just trying to hear everything. Maybe he missed something, right? Maybe he was too zoned out and Fred said something else, something different. Maybe he just misinterpreted everything he said, and Fred knows absolutely nothing, as he should. 

God, Fred had the most uncanny ability to scare the shit out of him. Every single time.

His first instinct, so blinding and overpowering that he almost didn’t consider any other option, was to run. Pick his bags up and lie to Fred Andrews and— and this is where the plot became sticky. What would he do? What  _ could _ he do? Skip town? Grab a train and let it go wherever it wanted? 

He had school tomorrow. And whatever Fred had to say was going to be less important that Jughead not getting a damn high school diploma— or, more pressingly, a warrant for his head. Jughead was a runaway, not a  _ missing persons _ case. He wouldn’t cause a scene or be scared away by one tiny  _ we need to talk. _

Except… except he was scared. He wanted to be a runaway. Whatever Fred Andrews had to say to him that was so important that it must be said in secret, without Archie, could be nothing but trouble. Fred  _ cared _ about Jughead, no matter how much it scared him, and anybody who was even a bit observative and gave a shit could see that Jughead was not doing great lately.

Fred knew. There was no way he didn’t. 

The other shoe was going to drop, as Jughead knew was bound to happen. There was a reason he waited so long to run away, and the reason was that running away was complex. It was messy, and it was dangerous, and it becomes harder and harder to hide. Shirts repeated more than twice a week and hygiene and weight slipped and excuses ran thin. 

Fred had seen Jughead wandering around town one day last week. He had offered to drive him home, as it was raining and Jughead was so far away from the trailer park. 

Jughead refused. Panicked and said the rain was nice to walk in. The soft putter patter of it resounded through his head almost as loud as his heart did.

Fred didn’t believe him. He nodded, and he said okay and drove away, but he didn’t believe him.

Jughead felt himself float gently to sit on the curb he was toeing, his whole body numbing less from the cold and more from the fear. Talking to Fred Andrews was always a mistake. He had stupidly thought, so many years ago, that it was a blessing. That talking to someone who was in a position of power to help and who actually  _ cared  _ was a blessing. He was so wrong. So stupidly wrong he could have thrown up everything he’d ever eaten.

Which… which wasn’t much.

_ Help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. _

Jughead forced himself to take a deep breath. Self soothing was such bullshit. The deep pit of anger in his stomach told him so. Why did he have to calm himself down? Did no one give a shit enough to even  _ help? _

He took another breath. Well, perhaps someone might care if he hadn’t pushed everyone away. Maybe someone would have noticed if he had not parked himself on a curbside in the middle of nowhere.

Almost as slowly as he sat, Jughead stood. He felt like he was on death row, which was so dramatic he could have gagged, but there was a tiny silver lining to it all. He had been offered a final meal, one last gift for his murderous soul before it was hung at the gallows, and he had no more shame left to say no

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it!!! We’re finally getting to plot!!!  
Thank you to everyone that has read and commented so far. I’m awful at replying to comments (thanks Anxiety) but I adore every single one of you and it really means a lot that people are enjoying reading this as much as I’m enjoying writing it. ❤️


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can’t believe it’s been SO LONG since i’ve updated this good gosh. Partially because i’ve been busy with work but mostly because this chapter was pretty difficult to write for me— but nevertheless i’m So so so happy to have something to update with <3

As it turned out, the half hour walk to the Andrew’s residence did nothing to lessen Jughead’s anxiety. Nor did it do anything to spur on his appetite. Which, before Fred’s phone call, was steadily growing to painful degrees. Now, though he’d been offered, he could barely even stomach the mere idea of eating.

There was a snapshot reaction that came with  _ we need to talk _ and it echoed throughout every crevice in Jughead’s body, rattling every little atom until they all vibrated to the tips of his fingers. It was regret, instant and boiling hot and absolutely frigid. Regret for saying yes and for picking up the phone and giving a shit enough about what anyone thought. There was no scenario that Jughead could come up with, no  _ what if _ , that held any favorable outcome.There was no way that Jughead was making his way out of this scenario with any of his sanity intact. 

So what if Fred Andrews knew he was homeless?

What could he do about it?

Jughead’s feet carried himself to the Andrew’s home— all white picket fences and big clean cars— and through some sort of muscle memory moved to the potted plants seated along the rail to the veranda. Under the second pot was a key box and it was the same one as it had been for most of Jughead’s life. The key used to be inside a lantern that swung decoratively next to the front door, but one year Mrs. Andrews threw out the lantern, unknowingly taking the key with it. After that Fred had found a pot with a semi-hollowed out bottom and stuck the key and key box under there. He wasn’t really a good gardener, and a visible key would have looked a little less suspicious than a pot that always had a rotted flower, but if there ever was a potential lazy robber they had never thought to look under there before.

Jughead grabbed the box and wanted the muscle memory to keep going, to lead him further to unlock the door, but reality and the present was far more crushing. He used to let himself in to the house all the time; it wasn’t weird, years ago, to have Jughead in the house without Archie. It was just how it was. Sometimes Jughead wasn’t there, of course, but more often than not he was.

Those times felt so long ago.

Mechanically, step by step, Jughead took the key from the box, put it in the handle, unlocked the door, and replaced the key and box under the second flowerpot on the railing.

It felt a little like breaking and entering, even if he did have the key.

The Andrew’s home hadn’t changed much since he was last inside, which was not too big of a shock. Fred had decorated once, about twenty five years ago when he and Mrs. Andrews bought the house, and never touched it since. The living room had stayed the same, down to the old worn-in couches. The dining room table that Jughead passed to get to the kitchen had been fixed about seven times in the past sixteen years (and, not for nothing, he and Archie definitely were the causes for about six of those times).

There were feelings that overtook him and they were that of familiarity. Shoes off by the door, because Fred was a very clean person and didn’t like dirt on his floors. Jacket hung on the hangers just above the shoe rack— or thrown on the nearest couch, if a pair of twelve year old boys so pleased. Backpacks didn’t have a place but Jughead always threw his on the dining room table before grabbing a snack and running upstairs with Archie.

There was a picture on the mantle in the living room that had been standing where it was once placed about ten years ago. It was no centerpiece by any means, and the frame was quite boring, but it caught Jughead’s eye as soon as he walked inside. The quality, in today’s standards, was awful and had been so obviously taken with a cheap disposable camera. It looked like the most ordinary picture in the world, placed in a home straight out of a 2005 nature catalogue. A man and a woman, standing side by side, and in front of them were two little boys. Everyone had on some sort of hiking gear— khakis or shorts and some boring, but not ugly, T-shirt’s. The woman was wearing a sun hat, and one of the kids had on a bowl hat.

There were a few things out of place in the photo, only noticeable by a familiar eye. There was no big yellow dog with a red collar— he’d come into the frame in a few years, nestled under a big Christmas tree with a red bow too big for his tiny neck. The man in the photo didn’t have shockingly red hair, unlike his son and wife. And the child with the bowl hat had the darkest hair poking out in all directions, as if the hat wasn’t big enough to hide all of the differences.

But it was still a family photo.

Yet there Jughead stood, so many years later, in the entryway to the Andrew’s residency, his backpack heavy on his shoulders and his shoes muddy from the long trek.

There was impermanence sealed into his heart now. He didn’t want to get comfortable. 

_ Especially  _ not before what he knew was to come.

But even deeper than his debilitating fear was his respect for Fred Andrews, which is why he even agreed to come in the first place. So he took off his shoes and placed them on the floor next to the rack. His coat could stay on, because he was still cold from the walk. He placed his backpack very gently next to his shoes, as if any sound could break his thinly veiled mind. His backpack was really growing too big— it had long since passed suspicious, and standing in the doorway it almost looked like a beacon to draw the eyes too. It was so painfully clear that it held more than it ever should have. Backpacks were not designed to hold the world in them, and high school boys were not designed to carry that weight.

It might have been overstepping, just a tiny bit, but Jughead’s next move was to let Vegas inside. Fred always let him into the backyard on his lunch break, and it was the job of whoever came home first to let him back in. Jughead felt uncomfortable, felt rigid and stiff and  _ stale _ in this house, like a taste left to linger far too long, but Vegas didn’t know that. Vegas deserved to be let inside by whoever was home first.

The picture on the mantle watched his every move. The eyes followed him as he knelt down to pet the dog that was much too happy to see him. Jughead was a very observant person but the picture would have caught his eye as he came in even if he wasn’t. It was the only picture in the house that still had all three Andrews in it. It also was the only picture that he was in.

That shock of black hair, though the space that it took up in the picture was so miniscule, was like a black hole. There was something  _ different _ about this black hair. Something so definitive and dark against the reds and mahoganies of the Andrew family. 

The eyes in the photo were crinkled with smiles but the more Jughead felt his gaze flicker to them, the more it seemed forced. No one could smile forever. Not even the people in the picture. And today they seemed to be grimacing-- they were trying, still, but the facade was fading. For the first time, Jughead thought he could sense unhappiness in the photo.

Maybe because he was looking at it so many years later and just throwing in his own anxiety to it. All those years ago they  _ were _ happy. It was a wonderful weekend full of happy memories and s’mores, and it was laughable to think that Fred Andrews would let anyone have their photo taken together without a big, genuine smile plastered to their face first.

Jughead straightened and took a seat at the table in the kitchen, Vegas still excitedly wagging his tail in blissful ignorance. He had to keep his eyes from looking at the photo and his mind from wandering to that evening. He didn’t like to think of his own problems these days, but above that he didn’t like to think of happy memories.

Really, he could just think about how he was going to be leaving the house in an hour tops, because that was his plan and Fred couldn’t stop him, no matter what. Whatever topic he wanted to talk about Jughead would give an hour berth to out of courtesy and then he was  _ gone _ , and it didn’t matter if he had to bust through the damn kitchen window to escape. He had lost all hope that Fred was going to bring up anything other than his homelessness, but Jughead could still hope that he could have the courage to up and go whenever he so pleased in the middle of the conversation. 

Though Fred intimidated Jughead in more ways than he’d like to admit, the man was not  _ physically _ threatening. Jughead had never felt particularly unsafe with him (the problem seemed to actually be that he felt  _ too _ safe with him) and he would have put all his money on the fact that Fred Andrews would never even accidentally step on Vegas’s tail. He was muscular from his construction work, and ate rather healthily besides the occasional cookout, but Jughead knew that if the situation came to it, he could take Fred Andrews in a fight. He didn’t  _ want _ to, of course-- his concern was more  _ slipping out of a grasp _ than throwing a punch.

Emotionally? It wouldn’t feel great, and he’s sure the guilt would eat him alive as soon as he made it halfway down the street. But physically? Fred Andrews was one man, and if Jughead wanted to run right out that damn door, he could. 

Unless… unless, of course, Fred didn’t come alone.

The realization dawned from a farfetched hypothetical, rising to his mind like bile.

Unless Fred had called his dad. 

Unless they were  _ both _ on the way to the house.

Jughead felt his heart skip a beat and his breath left his lungs. His hands were already cold but now they were frigid, and he wondered if he could move them even if he wanted to. He hadn’t accounted for that possibility. He hadn’t accounted for the possibility that Fred Andrews, caring father extraordinaire, would call up F.P. Jones, asshole father extraordinaire, and chew him out. Scream at him for allowing his own son to wander the streets, cold and tired and constantly hungry and without a bed to rest his head on at night.  _ Demand _ that he take his son back home and that they’d make up and Jughead Jones would once again be under the watch and care of F.P. Jones.

Fred had no  _ idea _ how people like F.P. worked. 

He had no idea what was even going on, even if he  _ thought _ he did.

It wouldn’t go down that way, if Fred reprimanded his dad. There would be no reconciliation and tears and hugs and promises. There would be no safety. There would be no home.

His dad would be angry. Really,  _ really _ angry.

That was the spark that lit Jughead to stand and nearly bolt to the front door.

Not three steps from his backpack and shoes, the door opened and Jughead froze in his tracks. 

There stood Fred Andrews, alone, smelling like sweat and rocks and smiling that same smile that scared Jughead terribly.

“Oh! Hey, Jug, I--”

And Jughead should have played it cool. The moment the words came tumbling out of his mouth, tripping and stumbling over each other, he knew that he had sealed his fate. 

“You’re-- you’re not gonna tell him, are you?”

But he had to know. He had to know  _ now _ .

Fred took a step in the house and gently closed the door behind him, looking much more confused than Jughead would have expected. “Woah, hey— what’re you saying?” 

He started taking off his jacket. He was moving much too slow. It was a detail that Jughead could remember with clarity for years to come— the leisure at which Fred Andrews took off his coat to hang it up, as Jughead stood with his mind racing with a million anxieties a minute. It was funny to note the details that stuck in his mind like that. 

“M-my—“ Fred was wearing a leather jacket. An old one that Jughead knew well, had seen Fred wear on days where he wanted to be more “fashionable”. “My— my dad— you didn’t—“

It wasn’t that his dad was unaware that Jughead was homeless. It was that he was very,  _ very _ aware, and he was also under the impression that no one else was. Both he and Jughead were under this impression, and they both wanted to keep it that way.

Fred seemed to take a moment, his jacket now swinging slightly on the hanger, and a look dawned over his face that made Jughead’s stomach drop directly to his feet. He looked at Jughead and it was something that he hadn’t seen in  _ years _ — ever since his mom left with his sister. 

Pity. Unmasked and unmistakable. Because of  _ course _ Jughead was right. Of course Fred knew.

“No,” Fred said and it was so gentle and calming that Jughead could have hurled. “I haven’t talked to him. I wanted to talk to you first.”

The afternoon blurred.

Jughead started to feel his legs give way, and Fred must have noticed this, because he suggested they both take a seat in the living room. There was nothing else to do except obey.

Fred sat on the couch in front of Jughead and he sat there for a while and he didn’t say a single word for what must have been hours, and when he did there was such an infliction on the  _ pity  _ of everything, such an emphasis on the  _ hurt _ that was running thick in Fred Andrew’s head, and Jughead could not say a single thing about any of it.

“Did you run away, or did he kick you out?”

There was a broken bottle on the floor in Jughead’s bedroom. No one bothered to clean up the stain from the leftover beer that had been in it.

When Jughead left, there had been four unopened beer bottles on the kitchen counter. One of them was hidden deep in his backpack. 

Jughead wanted to rub his face, to hide himself, to look Fred Andrews in the eye. He shook his head no. He might have whispered the word. Maybe to himself, maybe to Fred.

“He didn’t kick you out?”

No. A head shake.

“Why’d you leave, then?”

It was  _ humiliating _ . To sit in front of Fred Andrews like this. Jughead  _ smelled _ . He smelled like shit and dirt and like not bathing properly for weeks. He smelled like the school locker room at four in the  _ fucking _ morning, rushing as if someone might find him when the sun hadn’t even found the windows yet. Here was Jughead Jones, teen runaway, the boy who thought he could make it on his own but  _ couldn’t. _

“Jug?”

But he couldn’t say any of it. Just thinking of the words pushed so harshly against a dam he had spent weeks building. 

“He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

He might have said something. Maybe he shook his head no, or maybe he told the truth. He wasn’t there anymore— hadn’t been since Fred had given him that sad smile in the hallway. It was easier to handle that way. For some reason it felt like he was being attacked, even if Fred was sitting down and using soft spoken words. He was cornered and he couldn’t make a move, and all he had to do was  _ survive  _ this conversation. Survive whatever was to come. 

Jughead realized he wasn’t even looking at Fred anymore. It was easier to look at his socks. They were stained with the mud that had seeped through the holes in his shoes. Though his shoes rested by the front door, his socks had still managed to drag mud through the house.

“... Okay. Alright. Okay.”

Fred shifted. Jughead watched. Fred’s hands raised to his face and rubbed tiredly.

And all at once Jughead was back in his body, his heart pounding yet still, as Fred looked up and his face was red.

He was crying. 

Quickly Fred tried to swipe at all the silent tears that fell and he sniffed. Once, twice, and then he rubbed at his nose. 

“I… I’m sorry, son,” and more tears fell, silent and quicker now. “I let you down. I’m so, so sorry.”

Jughead stared. He couldn’t stop staring. He couldn’t breathe or say anything or move or even think. 

“I never…  _ never _ wanted you to think… that you didn’t have a— a home here. I never wanted you to feel alone. And I… I let you down. I’m so sorry, Jughead.”

And he kept talking. And Jughead couldn’t stop him. He  _ wanted _ to stop Fred— wanted to say anything at all. Some of him wanted to reassure Fred, because there wasn’t anything worse than being the one to make Fred Andrews cry. But he was the  _ cause _ of it. Jughead made Fred Andrews cry— and a large part of him couldn’t apologize.

A large, overpowering part of him wanted to be angry. 

Fred Andrews  _ did  _ let him down. 

And though the memory was barely in his mind for a moment, Jughead couldn’t keep his thoughts from drifting to a rainy day and a truck pulling up beside him. 

“I-I can’t imagine… I just— Jughead, you’re  _ family _ , and— and it breaks my heart that you’ve been… out on your own. Like this.”

His tears slowed and the room was quiet for a very, very long time. The eyes in the photograph were mournful now. Jughead thought they looked like they wanted to leave— like, given the chance, every single person would walk right out of frame and come back the next day when things had blown over.

Fred apologized again. Jughead could barely hear him.

He said he’d explain to Archie later, if Jughead wanted him to. But the guest room upstairs was his. It always had been. They’d talk more later. Go get cleaned up. Unpack. I’m sorry. About everything.

Jughead had stood up after a while and Fred mirrored him, taking a step forward expectantly. But Jughead just breezed past him, grabbing his backpack before heading upstairs to the guest room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, once again, to everyone that has kept up with this— and an extra shoutout to everyone who’s commented so far. I have a weird anxiety with responding to messages and actually leaving comments myself, and it really means a lot to me that people take the time to do so with my fics. I reread them all almost every time i continue working on this <3   
Hopefully the next chapter won’t take so long to get out, but we’ll see. It gets pretty heavy from here on out. <3


	5. Chapter 5

There used to be an old ladder that laid up against the side of Archie Andrew’s house. Fred Andrews had used it one summer when he decided to cut all the dead and overgrown branches off the trees in the backyard to make room for a treehouse that never got built. It was supposed to be a decent size, just big enough for two boys to drag up a board game and some pizza and a few blankets. After Fred was done with clearing away the branches, he had leaned that rickety ladder up against the wall and never bothered to pack it up and move it back into the garage.

One or two teenage boys had only to reach over from the window and bring the latter to a certain bedroom in order to access it. If they were feeling daring enough, they could climb down and leave one Fred Andrews none the wiser. Sure the ladder quaked and groaned as the years went on, and socks did nothing to help the noise, but not once did Fred Andrew’s table lamp turn on. They’d have to be careful, after they were ready to come back in, to push the ladder back into position. The window had to be closed and locked tightly, or else Fred Andrews would come to wake up the boys in the morning and comment on how cold the room was.

It was a magnificent heist for such a simple act as stargazing.

Neither Jughead nor Archie were particularly interested in astrology. They could barely remember their zodiac signs, only revealed to them by a particularly star-obsessed Middle School Betty Cooper. They both pretended to learn their constellations and where exactly they sat, and side by side they’d lay in the grass and point to the brightest stars in the sky and whisper pretend prophecies. The stars were always in the right position for them. It was cold those nights, never mind if the season was summer or winter, but it never stopped those boys from talking to the moon and the stars, wishing they had enough bravery to turn and talk to the one beside them.

When Jughead entered the guest room, the window straight across from the door revealed just the tiniest sliver of this ladder pressed up against the frame.

Perhaps there should have been an inclination to use the ladder and escape. He felt his backpack slide to the floor, and he heard the door silently close behind him, and Jughead felt himself gravitate to the window. With this closed door and the ladder so perfectly placed, he felt as though he could run and no one would notice. 

Without his backpack— without the world around him— Jughead would open the window and he would fly away. The ladder was too animated for him now— too set upon the solid reality. He was above that now, floating against the cusp of reality and watching it move past him as he stayed fixated in just one moment of time. He was above climbing; he was flying now, and that’s what he’d do, straight out the window, straight into the blackening sky.

Then he’d be gone. Directly into the atmosphere to gather up all his nothings he’d said to the sky so many years ago. Maybe he’d find Archie’s voice up there, too.

He slid to the floor beside the bed, right next to his backpack, and he stared out the window until the stars started appearing, slowly fading in and wishing him goodnight.

There was too much to think about. Too much to do.

And yet he could do nothing. He could think about none of it.

Maybe he was overridden with fear. Maybe it was uncertainty. A lot of it was nausea— perhaps more of the emotional rather than physical kind.

He wanted to leave. At the first sight of a roof over his head and food to eat and a bed to sleep on, he wanted to leave more than he ever thought he would. Nights spent  _ praying  _ against his own agnostic heart that he might start believing in something that would  _ save him  _ were suddenly regrettable— they were suddenly benign and useless, as he wanted nothing but the opposite again. He would have taken another ten thousand nights in a closet at his own high school than this.

Shame ran hot and thick in his veins, and he could only think of this house, the one he felt so strange and alien in, and the  _ years  _ of time he had spent in it as if he lived there. He’d only stepped foot in the guest room maybe once or twice, though he’d spent countless nights in the house.

He thought of Archie more than he wanted to. He thought of the tears that ran down Fred’s chin and darkened his dirty work jeans. 

Shame and fear and exhaustion. The weariness in his heart and his limbs was so overpowering he couldn’t move, and even long after the sky grew black and the room around him dimmed and he heard the front door open and close again he could not move.

He wanted so desperately to be angry. He  _ begged _ himself to be livid, to stand and grab his backpack and barrel his way back out the front door and into the cold night. How badly he wanted to scream in Fred Andrew’s face for butting into  _ his _ life and  _ forcing  _ himself into a situation he knew nothing about. And how  _ dare _ he be so upset, providing he  _ did know  _ and did  _ nothing  _ about for so long. Fred is lucky that Jughead hadn’t screamed, hadn’t thrown his fists like his dad taught him to and hadn’t stormed right out the front door— right?

Jughead blinked and his hat was on the floor and his hands were tangled in his hair, gripping and pulling so tight. The pain brought his mind to a very temporary pause, just quick enough for the badly kindled and already dying fire to just a tiny pile of ash in his mind. 

He hadn’t cried this whole weekend. Downstairs he heard Archie laugh at something. 

Did he even know Jughead was  _ there? _

That laugh resounded in his mind. It hit every corner— the exhaustion and the shame and the guilt and the depression and the anger and the fear— every thought it whispered to and nurtured. Did it sound nervous? The laugh was over in just a moment, like a bark or a gunshot or a car backfiring. It sounded nervous.

Jughead sat alone in a dark room and felt overwhelmed. 

He would have to confront Archie. His room was right next to the guest room, and the walls were thin. At some point, Jughead would have to also go downstairs and talk to Fred again. He had no idea which was scarier.

The stairs creaked, quietly, one by one, and suddenly Jughead knew which idea was scarier.

There was nothing to do but to accept his fate, to wait and let—

Knocking, quietly. Twice, quietly.

“Jug?” Quietly.

And that’s when the dam broke. Quietly.

Somewhere a door opened, and someone said something, and Jughead couldn’t hear any of it. He was only distantly aware of footsteps approaching, and he wished he had enough decency left to stave off his tears just a few minutes longer— all he needed was one more clean conversation, one more stoic stare, one hour more. Just one. He was just asking for one thing.

But his heart, his poor exhausted heart, had split in two.

All the pain leaked out of him in wretched sobs that slipped between his fingers. The dirty floors and the cold nights and the frozen fingertips and the gnawing hunger and the disgusting desperation burst forth from a kid who had given up living so long ago— the pain of  _ surviving _ hurt like a knife through his chest and he couldn’t stop it. The agony of memories— his mother and his  _ sister _ waving to him as he stood in front of a trailer, his heart aching with unshed tears, and his dad— his dad on that last night, and how he had asked so earnestly how Jughead was doing in school and the anger that flooded Jughead, the anger of being ignored and brushed aside and the distrust of any earnest bit of affection. 

How far he had fallen, and how much he felt every single centimeter of his descent. 

How  _ hungry _ he was.

Shaking and sobbing into his knees, gone and lost in his own mind and heart, disconnected from the arms that wrapped around him. He felt like he was drowning. His tears and his thoughts and all those weeks of ignoring both had finally caught up to him. 

If anyone had ever been the first to die of this feeling, he was to be the second. The vortex of pain wrapped around him and sucked him down and nothing, not even the sunshine that was Archie Andrews, could pull him out of it. He had collapsed inwardly, like he knew was bound to happen, and he couldn’t collect himself again. Shattered like glass against the ground, he felt little pieces of himself skid away— all his memories flitting in different directions, all his sanity leaking from him and slipping into the cracks in the wooden floor and dripping far away from him. 

It was worse than leaving. It was worse than that first night when he had thought to himself, alone and wandering the dark streets of Riverdale with a pocketknife clenched in his trembling fingers, that it was the worst night of his life. The broken beer bottles, the unmade bed in the trailer, the empty booth at Pop’s, neon lights falling on an empty seat— all the worst things in his life, all the things that had worn him ragged had sharpened and cut him to his bone and through it.

When he thought he couldn’t physically cry any more, when he thought he was too exhausted to do anything but pass out, another memory pushed itself to the forefront of his mind and he found more tears to shed. 

Somehow all the memories— they all morphed into Fred Andrews, sitting on a couch before him, crying.

He’d shake his head. He’d try opening his raw eyes and blinking. He’d close his eyes again. And there was Fred Andrews, crying.

And when, after it felt as though hours had passed, his tears finally slowed to a small drizzle, there was Archie Andrews, sat beside him as he always had been.Quiet Archie, gentle Archie, who hadn’t moved a single inch through it all. Hadn’t said a single word until Jughead had calmed, resting his head against his knees, and the room was brought to an empty silence. 

“Why, Jug? Why didn’t you tell me?”

And Jughead couldn’t answer. There were too many reasons and all of them were so heavy and his heart could only hold so much more.

“We were... supposed to tell each other everything.”

Those words were a knife embedded into his heart. Twisted and gnarled. And they burned to the forefront of Jughead’s mind, repeating and repeating and repeating. A shaking hand was squeezing his arm too hard.  _ We were supposed to tell each other everything.  _ Was Archie crying?

“D-Don’t— Don’t— Don’t say that, please— please don’t say that,” Jughead whispered, his voice muffled in his ears. It hurt too much. “Just don’t say that.”

It was a pinkie promise and it was no longer true and it burned inside his chest like nothing had before.

“You should have  _ said _ something,” Archie said and Jughead heard him force what he could not do himself; he heard Archie be  _ angry _ . Just a twinge of it, a small speck of aggression, just enough to not have to be sad. 

It didn’t work. Jughead could hear him sniffle and could feel him shake. The hold on his arm was slackening. 

The silence overtook the room again, interrupted only by Archie, who sniffled every so often and tried to wipe at his eyes inconspicuously. There was nothing to say and no way to move forward— the way the sadness built density into his bones felt like a cup running over. There was no reprieve, not even with Archie— not even with the way he felt like he could close his eyes and fall asleep and never wake up again. Even then, even with the exhaustion, Jughead’s mind was still a whirlwind.

Archie was never good with silence. Jughead could have lived his life without saying another word to anyone else, and sometimes, when they were younger, he would go days without speaking. Archie was always the one to start a conversation with Jughead and reel him out of whatever emotional hole he had dug himself into. 

In the silent room, suddenly Jughead had too much to say. There was so much of him scattered across the floor and he wanted nothing more than to pick up all the pieces and lay them back out; tell Archie Andrews every single thing that had happened in the past few weeks. He could remember all of it perfectly— the days leading up to today and the first days on the road, on his own. He could remember all the pay phones he’d stop at and exactly where they were and exactly how many times he’d count all of his quarters, even though he always knew he had enough money for a conversation. All the places he slept and how they bordered the south and the north, resting right in the territory that was unspoken for.

It seemed like the only thing to do at the moment. To share stories with Archiei Andrews about the past, because that was the only thing Jughead knew about with certainty. In that moment, after talking with Fred Andrews and crying in front of his son, there was no escaping what was happening, and he felt like there never would be. He was trapped— somewhere a flip had switched and four walls had closed in with no room for escape. 

On repeat he saw Fred Andrew’s face and he heard the words  _ we were supposed to tell each other everything.  _ He felt like he would die between those two thoughts. 

But it wasn’t the time for stories. Neither was it, though, the time to move forward. It was the time to sit in this misery, to drown in it so completely. It was all Jughead could do. Repeat those horrible words and close his eyes just to see color. 

They were the kind of thoughts that one couldn’t move past in a night or two.

Archie took a deep breath.

“Um… Dad said… He said…” 

Jughead waited. He waited for a while. 

“I… It doesn’t matter. Never mind.”

Normally it drove Jughead up the wall to not  _ know _ something, especially if it was gossip about himself. But he had a feeling that there was going to be a  _ lot  _ said about him behind closed doors. He had a feeling it didn’t matter anymore. Not to the universe or to whoever was doing the talking— maybe it still mattered to him. Maybe it was a moot point now to care about something like that.

He similarly had a feeling that he couldn’t trust a single word Fred Andrews said. Not to him, and maybe not even to Archie.

(But, again— did that matter to anyone besides Jughead anymore?)

“Do you…” Archie let go and fixed his hair nervously. It was painfully obvious that he was hurting, which is why Jughead tried hard to keep his eyes fixed to the floor. All the anger in his voice— the defeat and the heartbreak and the sadness  _ had _ to roll off Jughead’s shoulders. The awkwardness in the room and Archie’s hurt had to be nothing but water on a rooftop. 

_ (We were supposed to tell each other everything. _ )

“What’re you going to do?” He paused and drew his knees up, slowly, one by one. “What do you want  _ me _ to do?”

“I don’t know.” He didn’t have to think of a response. He was far away from his body and the conversation— he was already trying to float up to the stars, through the window and past the rickety old ladder. Whatever happened on Earth was shadowed by the light of the stars. That’s how it had to be. That’s how Jughead desperately tried to make it. “I guess I’m… here.”

“Dad… offered you this room but… uh… I don’t know.” He shifted and something brushed against Jughead’s arm. It was then that he realized that Archie hadn’t turned the light on when he came in. “I guess I should go.”

“I guess so.”

But the concept of being alone, the threat to be consumed by his thoughts both physically and mentally, was horrifying. 

Archie nodded, barely perceptible in the darkness. “I guess so,” he whispered.

It was a few hours later, sometime nearing two or three in the morning, when Jughead finally unfolded his sore body from where he sat pressed against the bed. Archie had gone downstairs not long after midnight, and Jughead heard him and Fred Andrews have a lengthy discussion before both of them went off to bed. 

If Jughead could have counted the stars from where he laid on his bed, he would have. But he was too tired to look and have numbers run through his mind; words filled his thoughts, and though he could see a few specks of light out in the black sky he couldn’t focus on them long enough to stop the words. 

He had tried to count them, nonetheless, for a small amount of time. It didn’t take long for him to give up, closing his eyes and snuffing out all the stars in the sky. Behind his sore eyes ran words, visible as black ink on white paper. Some sort of typewriter had the words file across his brain, one by one, just a little too quickly.

He thought of Fred Andrew, and how he could describe his face as he broke down and cried. He thought of the words that could detail Archie Andrew’s grip, so tight yet shaking like a leaf. But all the sentences, all the words that he could think of, all ran on and on to a sentence too long that always ended in the same phrase:

_ We were supposed to tell each other everything. _

The beer bottle in the bottom of his backpack, unopened.

_ We were supposed to tell each other everything. _

Archie had no idea it was there. Neither did Fred Andrews.

_ We were supposed to tell each other everything. _

And if Jughead thought about those words too much, let his mind stay on them for too long, he would start to feel his fingers, one by one, curl into a fist.

_ We were supposed to tell each other everything. _

And like he’d been splashed by ice cold water, he’d uncurl his fist and take a deep breath. A very deep, very quiet, breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good gosh this fic just gets heavier and more difficult to write. thank you once again to everyone who reads <3 i love you all so very much. Not sure where this fic is gonna go but gosh golly is it gonna go. <3  
Come yell with me about this emo boy at my tumblr, @qanter-queen!


	6. Chapter 6

The sounds of an early morning wafted up from the kitchen to where Jughead was laying down, staring at the ceiling and trying to ignore the smell of scrambled eggs that was also seeping through the space under the door. 

Fred Andrews had the radio playing and it was set to some channel that was too quiet to distinguish— every so often a sharp trumpet would filter through the walls and Jughead’s bad hearing, which left him to assume that Fred was playing the oldies. Jughead knew that none of the Andrews really preferred the oldies, but rather Fred always liked to have some sort of ambient music playing in the house at all times and old fashioned jazz always seemed to do the trick. By now, Jughead was well aware that both himself and Archie knew some lyrics of songs that were at least sixty years old, as if the details and fine points of music had suddenly become transferable through some odd form of osmosis. They’d never play it voluntarily on their own, but by consequence Jughead and Archie grew up having an affinity of old music, and though Fred Andrews cultivated this he also didn’t spare an exasperated glance when the two boys would hum along to some old-time love song at breakfast.

Jughead closed his eyes, trying to separate the song’s notes and recognize it. He couldn’t— the song, from what he could tell, wasn’t one he had heard before. He was grateful for the unfamiliar ambiee; it meant life was continuing without him.

Fred Andrews wasn’t a spectacular cook (save the amazing barbecuing skills) but that never mattered to Jughead. Even the most mediocre of foods would always be considered heavenly in his book, especially after everything that had happened in the past few months. The smell of breakfast cooking might not have been spectacular or especially saturated, but it was just enough to make his stomach growl uncomfortably.

Maybe, Jughead thought to himself, if he focused enough on the song, he could ignore the smell. And perhaps, if he tried really hard, he could ignore the sounds of a conversation.

He didn’t want to focus on or think about last night. He couldn’t— not for his own sanity nor the preservation of his poor eyes, which were puffy and red and terribly tired. So he let the bitterness run its course through his body like an instinct; without acknowledging why or how, he didn’t want to go downstairs. 

It had always been his favorite part of any weekend stay at the Andrew’s— the home cooked breakfast, warm and accompanied with good conversation. But there now ran this instinct so deeply inside of him and though it was new it was also absolute. Jughead couldn’t push past this and he didn’t want to. He would wait until about 9:00 a.m. to go downstairs. Archie had practice Saturday mornings at 8:00 a.m.— Jughead was still trying to nail down the weekend schedules of the sports teams, but he was pretty sure of the football players’— and Fred Andrews, when the weather was nice, typically took Vegas out for a long Saturday walk at the park around 8:45 a.m.. Both of them would be gone for a few good hours, wherein Jughead would have free reign of the house.

Then, and only then, would he go downstairs to eat. Even if his stomach was practically roaring and he knew that there would be no leftover scrambled eggs if he didn’t steal any from Archie “The Bottomless Hole” Andrews right then.

Which… which actually brought up another point he hadn’t considered. Could Jughead just… go downstairs when everyone was gone and make himself food? Wouldn’t that be— it’s not stealing if he was a guest, right? Or… or maybe it wasn’t  _ stealing _ , but it could be rude. No, no, it’d definitely be rude.

Jughead rubbed his face and sighed. He couldn’t make a single move, could he?

Maybe he’d head out and eat breakfast at Pop’s. He probably had enough pocket change to buy a coffee and a breakfast sandwich or something. Or… maybe he didn’t. He probably didn’t. And after last night he didn’t really care to talk to anyone for the next hundred years, meaning he probably didn’t have the words to convince Pop to put another meal on his tab.

Actually, there came a sort of impending dread that had seeped into his being and, after last night, permanently stained his bones. He had an awful feeling, though unfounded in anything, that the next time he spoke to Pop he’d have to pay off his entire debt. 

It felt like now that the cat was out of the bag, the entire bag had to be emptied and thrown away.

He already felt an awful mix of overwhelming hollowness. Why shouldn't every band-aid be ripped off and every scab scratched open? Why shouldn’t he bleed out so completely?

He couldn’t think like that, though. He couldn’t take much more. He had to have control over  _ some _ situations. He had to.

It was a sickening comfort to reassure himself that only Fred and Archie knew of what had happened. Everyone else was in the dark— to everyone else, he was still Jughead Jones, quiet loner extraordinaire, who lived in the shady part of town but carried thoughts just as sharp as the average Harvard graduate. He didn’t struggle with things outside of his grasp and he had everything under control. He was quiet for unfounded reasons and that was alright. He was well kept and he wasn’t hungry.

He had no idea who he was trying to fool, but it was important that they were fooled nonetheless. 

Jughead cracked an eye open and looked over at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 

7:30 a.m..

The Andrews, unfortunately, were very early risers. Jughead wasn’t, though it wasn’t often that he could exercise his right to sleep in. 

He was actually extremely jealous of Archie and his ability to just…  _ sleep _ whenever he’d like. It was one of the perks of living in a safe home, he supposed.

Before the summer happened, and before they grew apart, one of Jughead’s favorite things was to go straight to the Andrew’s after school and take a nap wherever he could find a suitable surface. Anywhere that had something resembling a pillow was alright. 

It was the same routine almost every day. He and Archie would come into the house and take their shoes off by the door, throwing their backpacks on the dining room table. Archie— granted, all these things only happened if Archie didn’t have practice— would head into the kitchen and ask what Jughead wanted to eat. Jughead, after throwing himself directly on the couch, would give a very indifferent answer, and Archie would take a guess (and he was never wrong).

Sometimes that would be the end of things. Archie would take ten minutes or less in the kitchen and at the end of it he’d return to find Jughead dead asleep on the couch. Sometimes they’d make it all the way up to Archie’s room, and mid gaming session Jughead would drift off, his controller sliding out of his fingertips and falling to the floor from Archie’s bed.

It was a pattern that only started popping up within the last year or so. 

7:45 a.m..

Sometimes Jughead would be out for only a few minutes. Only while he was waiting for Archie to get done with whatever he was doing, and the second that red hair came into view Jughead’s eyes would fly open as if he hadn’t just been dead to the world. 

Sometimes Jughead only woke up when Fred Andrews called out that dinner was ready.

Archie never really commented on this new pattern. Never really commented on much of anything in the past year. When Jughead would wake up Archie would be sat close by, either doing his homework or playing video games or sometimes, on a rare occasion, he’d be on the phone with Betty. They’d just be shooting the breeze or talking about homework. Jughead would rub his eyes and fix his hat and ask what Archie was doing and that was that. 

There was never any further conversation, even if there should have been.

8:10 a.m..

There was one afternoon, though, that Jughead awoke to a very hushed conversation between Archie and Fred Andrews. It had been a terribly long day— though he was still living at home, he had taken to minimizing his time there. That meant keeping busy until midnight and leaving at the first sight of dawn. Usually he could loiter around the Andrew’s house, but the day before they had both been busy visiting Fred’s sister’s wife (or some relation like that; Jughead was not great at remembering people) and Jughead had not been ritualistically invited over. So he had spent his time at school until they closed and locked the doors, working aimlessly on the newspaper, and spent the rest of his time wandering around Riverdale. When he got back to the trailer it was one in the morning and the stars he’d spent a few hours observing were shining as bright as ever.

8:30 a.m..

Jughead had crashed at Fred Andrew’s house the next day. Hard. Could barely keep his eyes open. He had several tests that day and had stayed up all night to study. One moment on the couch and his head barely had time to hit a pillow before he was out cold.

9:00 a.m..

He had pretended to be asleep, though it was clear that Fred Andrews and Archie were in the kitchen and out of his line of sight. There was a certain tone that adults used when they talked about serious secrets and Jughead had gotten used to hearing it, many years ago, between his parents. He thought to himself, foggy minded and bleary eyed, that Archie was not nearly old enough to adopt this tone. 

9:03 a.m..

“I’m just saying that I’m a little concerned.”

“I don’t think there’s anything to be concerned about, Dad. He’s always tired.”

“And you don’t think there’s a problem there?”

Fred Andrews had tried to sound earnest. It was clear to Jughead, though, that he was just testing Archie. Fred Andrews knew the answer already. He always did.

9:10 a.m..

Jughead waited with baited breath and his heart picked up. Even though he only had to close his eyes to keep up his facade, suddenly it was impossible to do so.

9:25 a.m..

Archie was quiet for a very long time. Jughead heard some movement in the kitchen and Fred Andrews sighed.

“Are you… uh… are you really that worried?”

More silence.

10:00 a.m..

“I don’t know, Archie. I could be wrong. You know him better than I do.”

3:00 p.m..

“Jug?”

And, laying there in the Andrew’s guest room, his stomach growling painfully, Jughead wished that he could have gone back in time. He wished he could have woken up and went into the kitchen and sat down and told both of them his story. He wished he could have asked for help before he had ever let it get this far.

“Jug? You up?”

He felt his eyelids flutter open, unaware of when they ever closed. The house was eerily quiet now and the smell of cooking eggs was gone— all that remained from the morning spectacle that he had been trying to ignore was a headache.

The alarm clock next to him read 3:05 p.m..

_ Oh, shit. _

“Oh, shit,” he mumbled, bringing his hands up to his face. He must have fallen back asleep at some point.  _ Shit. _

“Uh, good evening, I guess…?”

Jughead didn’t need to look to know that Archie was trying to smile, standing somewhere in the doorway. Something compulsory in him groaned, “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? For what?” 

“Um, I don’t know,” he sat up slowly, still trying to wrap his mind around what happened. He must have slept for… was it midnight when he fell asleep last night? No, it was more like three in the morning. So he had gotten around twelve hours of sleep. That was a generous amount compared to the average four or five he’d been getting recently, but it felt like he had barely slept for more than an hour. “What’s up?”

“Well, y’know,” Jughead finally opened his eyes just enough to see Archie, already completely dressed and looking freshly showered, with something of a sheepish smile on his face. Jughead  _ almost _ immediately closed his eyes again. It was like staring into the damn sun. “I figured— I mean, you slept through— um— I figured you might be hungry, or something. Or— I— you should probably eat something.”

“Hmm. Yeah.” The longer he kept his eyes open the more he was regretting waking up at all. He was still enveloped in a sleep that crept up on him— so enveloped that while he was sure, distantly, that he should have been hungry, he couldn’t really feel anything besides the weight of his eyelids. “Yeah, I’ll… um…” 

And what will he do? Going to Pop’s was out of the question. He barely wanted to move from where he was slouched over on the bed. 

“I’ll… take care of that. At some point.”

He rubbed his face some more. Maybe he was drugged... somehow. Why couldn’t he just  _ wake up? _

“Hey, it’s alright, I— I’ll make us something, I— I haven’t had lunch yet either, so just come downstairs and I’ll…. make us something.”

The uneasiness that had started to root in his being last night perked up, just a tad, only leashed by the weariness and exhaustion in his bones. Some very muted part of his mind was very adamant on telling him that he shouldn’t accept  _ anything _ the Andrews gave him. 

“Fine, okay. Give me a minute.”

Archie hesitated and opened his mouth once, quickly, before closing it again. Jughead was very sure that there was a  _ lot _ Archie wanted to say. In some way, there was a lot that  _ he _ wanted to say as well. None of it, though, could have been said right then, not when he was barely awake like this. Finally, Archie broke the silence. “Hey, um, I… I don’t want to sound, like, rude or anything.”

Jughead just closed his eyes again. He was so damn tired but the anxiety over hearing  _ anything  _ that was more than a passing comment still flooded every crevice of his body, right from the tips of his toes to the top of his head. He braced himself and held his breath—

Archie wouldn’t say anything, not  _ now _ —

“Um, maybe you should also shower.”

— Oh.

The relief that filled him was almost comical. He doubled over and felt the anxiety wash away as quickly as it had come. A shower. Right. He hadn’t even changed out of his clothes. 

(His incredibly dirty and smelly clothes that he hadn’t washed in three days because he was  _ homeless _ and of course Archie would notice, of  _ course  _ he would, which meant maybe someone else had as well—)

“I’ll…” This all raised the issue, however, that he didn’t have clothes to change into. Maybe he could just change into some  _ other  _ dirty clothes and wash the ones he was wearing, then switch. “Yeah, after I eat.”

That answer seemed to satisfy Archie, who gave a feeble “alright” before turning and heading downstairs.

And though Jughead wanted nothing more than to lay back down and fall asleep, he begrudgingly stood and grabbed for his hat— and almost immediately sat back down again.

Right. Maybe that contributed to the tiredness. It had been too long since he had slept in an actual bed, and it had been too long since he didn’t wake up every twenty minutes to check on his things, and it had been even longer than both of those things that he had fallen asleep  _ not _ feeling paranoid. To top it all off, though, was the quiet growl in his stomach. He had not a single idea when he had last eaten. Luckily there were a few water fountains in the school and a few hoses behind houses he could drink from, but realistically he was probably also dehydrated. 

There wasn’t much that he had been on top of recently. His grades had slipped, that was undeniable, and his health had been thrown even farther on the back burner. Being cold and starving had become a part of him, a third limb that grew when no one bothered to snip the weeds when they rooted, and the exhaustion kept him from ever remembering a time before those feelings.

He stood, a little bit slower this time. His head swam and the fog that permeated it only grew more dense. 

Walking downstairs he was immediately greeted by Vegas, though he could see through the window in the living room that Fred Andrews wasn’t home. Vegas, oblivious to any social conventions happening, decided that he hadn’t seen Jughead in a few years and greeted him as such. Archie glanced up from where he was rooting through the cabinets, which was the only thing that kept Jughead from giving in to Vegas and sitting on the floor to say hi. 

“What’re you in the mood for? Dad’s food shopping, but we’ve got some stuff.”

The resolve didn’t last long and Jughead sat himself on the couch. Vegas excitedly followed and jumped up beside him, nearly barreling Jughead over as he decided to get as physically close as he could. “Uh— whatever.”

“Alright. One hot plate of  _ whatever _ , coming up.”

He supplied a weak smile that Jughead reciprocated, interrupted quickly by a yawn. 

Archie pursed his lips and turned back to looking through the kitchen.

Jughead knew he was walking a dangerous line. There were so many things he should have been doing— so many things to hide and shove down deep into his mind where it couldn’t see the light of day. He had just spent the night  _ sobbing  _ in front of Archie, and just had a damn  _ intervention _ with Fred Andrews— and they had learned that he— or maybe they didn’t  _ learn _ it, but they had brought to Jughead’s attention that they knew of his homelessness. There was so much to say and none of it was good. None of it was positive in any way, and absolutely none of it lead to Jughead staying with the Andrews. None of it lead to  _ any  _ of this being okay.

Yet the couch was the same couch he had slept on for so many years. The first night that he and Archie ever had a sleepover, back when they were both kids, he slept on this couch. Not for the whole night, though. He could remember calling his dad in the middle of the night— or maybe it had been later— to come and pick him up. 

His dad hadn’t yelled. Archie understood, and so did Fred, and his dad didn’t yell.

That couch was the exact same one that he let himself lay down on at that moment, Vegas already curled against him.

Archie would wake him up, he always did. 

It was inexcusable. 

Jughead was so tired.

3:30 p.m..

“Jug?”

His eyes peeled open so slowly and he hadn’t the faintest idea they had ever closed. Somehow he had ended up lying on the couch, Vegas in his arms looking at him like he was some sort of saint. 

Archie was looking down at him. Something sounded like boiling water behind him. 

Archie looked pained. He looked like he was trying to hide it, but he looked pained. “Jug?”

Jughead closed his eyes again. He hummed in acknowledgement.

“I made lunch.”

Lunch. He was probably hungry.

“I’ll make you a plate, but you gotta… y’know…. wake up. To eat it.”

“Mmm. I’m awake.”

“... okay, bud.”

He wanted to retort something snappish. Something like,  _ don’t use that tone with me.  _ Something like,  _ what, don’t you believe me? _

But Archie had started to walk back to the kitchen, and when Jughead next opened his eyes he was gone.

The sky peering through the drawn curtains in the kitchen was almost pitch black. Archie wasn’t there. Neither was any sign of food. 

The clock on the kitchen wall read 7:00 p.m..

He had enough time to acknowledge that he was fighting a losing battle before his eyes closed again on their own accord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, this fic just gets more and more difficult two write as it goes on— it’s incredibly personal to me, and it means so much that y’all read and enjoy it. Poor jug will stop being whacked with a hammer at some point, probably, maybe, and perhaps we will get to some romance. Perhaps Jughead can have a little romance in the midst of his mental turmoil and crisises.... as a treat :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man oh man. More stuff! Once again a huge fucking thank you to all who read and comment— this story is so personal to me and it means so much that other people like it as well. Seriously-- i reread all the comments on this just about once a day and it warms my heart and gets me so excited. I have a weird anxiety that i feel like its too late to reply to all yalls comments by now, but I'm gonna promise that I'll be better about replying! It means a lot that you take the time to comment and all i want to do is talk to you guys about this angsty boy and all his angst. Ive been rewatching the first season and like boy howdy did i make this a lot more dramatic than it was in the show.  
Also for some reason this fic has consistantly been saying the last time it updated was November 11th? It should be fixed now!  
Extra warnings this chapter for very impulsive and dumb things. Heed the tags a little more this time.

There was something about watching the blood run down the drain that was transfixing. Watching the red lines slide down the wall and slither over the tile and stain the crevices of his skin, sneaking in the cracks between his toes. They looked like snakes; like he was bleeding snakes and they came from his ears and his nostrils and his mouth, one by one, curling around his arms and his torso and his legs and gliding across his top of his foot until they found their way to the drain, making room in the stream of water for other snakes just like them.

He couldn’t escape them. The snakes followed him, they mocked him, and they reminded him of what he was made of; serpents, red as blood, running through his veins just the same. 

He couldn’t stop staring.

The snakes, the snakes, the snakes. They controlled him and they followed him and they were  _ him _ , even if he was in a clean bathroom, in a bleached white shower, in a home that smelled like fresh linen and vanilla candles.

He couldn’t explain the feeling that had overtaken him that night— it was as if he needed the snakes to be out of him, or to maybe prove to himself that they were still there. Maybe he needed to make sure that they still didn’t have bones, that they were still red as blood, that they were still young and fresh and quick as rabbits.

They burned as they left him. Maybe it was catharsis. His arm was covered. The slice on it, running almost half the length of his forearm, was like a large, permanent fixture— a snake that wasn’t running down the drain, a snake that stared at him and wouldn’t stop spewing obscenities. Maybe this is what he needed to see, to feel, to experience.

At the end of the night— the beginning of the morning?— he had found his way back to the Andrew’s house— or, at least, his street. This was telling. This meant something to Jughead Jones. It meant a lot, actually, but he couldn’t figure out what.

What had he been thinking? What did he hope to feel?  _ Why  _ had he done this?

He had woken up at 11:43 p.m., having slept the whole day away. He had been exhausted, and he knew this, and finally his body had the chance to know it too. When he woke up that night no one else was awake, and he figured he had his chance to sneak off to the kitchen and find something to eat. 

He was ravenous. It had been so long since he had the chance to make a meal but he found that he no longer knew how— in the dark he scavenged, trying to read labels on pasta and rice and microwaveable dinners. None of them would suffice— he raided the pantry, trying to find things that were stocked up so that Fred Andrews wouldn’t notice anything missing. Pasta or rice would have been easier to miss if they were gone, but he had learned to take what he needed and to take it  _ quickly _ . There was no promise of where he’d be after ten minutes when the rice would be ready.

So he ate granola bars and a few crackers— they weren’t enough, and he doubted they’d be enough for a while, but they were  _ something _ and he discovered as soon as he took a bite that he didn’t have an appetite anyway. The anxiety that ran through his bones as he sat at the table and looked at the living room, the same one he and Fred Andrews had sat in the other day, was something that took his breath away and made everything taste like dirt.

The words rolled over in his mind like crashing waves. 

_ We were supposed to tell each other everything. _

_ I let you down.  _

_ It breaks my heart. _

_ We were supposed to tell each other everything. _

_ I let you down. I let you down. I let you down. _

_ We were supposed to tell each other everything. _

_ It breaks my heart. _

Overlapping, loud, insufferable,  _ painful _ .

Sitting in the house, thinking about the love they had for him, the love they shoved down and choked on until just the right moment, until they could no longer shovel it away. Right until Fred Andrews said something and suddenly Archie had to say something too and suddenly it was all about  _ Jughead _ , all about the boy they ignored, all about the boy they pitied like they’d never pitied anyone before. How could they have ignored this bird for so long when it cried outside their house with a broken wing, crying and crying and crying until the sun came up?

He wasn’t at home here, no matter what anyone said. Maybe he once had been, but not anymore.

It hurt his heart more than anything else— he wanted to be home. 

And where was that?

His gaze had travelled over the couch, over the indent of Fred and the ghost of his cries, and looked at the street, barely illuminated in the dead of night, and there he found his answer.

Without stopping to blink, to pack up his things and grab his phone and leave a note, he was there— he was in the middle of the night, he was the bird sat on the telephone wire above him, he was a kid staring at an empty street and an uncovered path.

The Andrew’s house didn’t have a single light on. Jughead found he preferred it that way; pitch black and without a soul in sight. He could pretend that he had left the scene, that Fred Andrews and Archie were just characters waiting for him to enter. As soon as he would touch the doorknob all the lights would fly on and they would, reanimated with his arrival, be standing in the living room waiting to talk to him again.

It was the last thing he wanted. 

So he headed down the empty street to home. He started walking to the South.

He didn’t think he’d reach the trailer. He, truthfully, didn’t think he’d make it down the street.

But there he was, and there was his dad’s motorcycle, and there was the lamp shining through the crooked blinds.

He stayed in the bushes as best as he could, out of sight and out of mind. There was some movement in the trailer. The lights were on. There was the faint sound of a T.V. This stage was set and it was playing without him.

This was not anything new. It had been years since anything  _ new _ — since a birthday party, since a hug, since a home cooked meal, since a shared laugh of any kind. 

It hurt. It hurt worse than anything had in the past three days.

He didn’t hang around— why would he?— and he didn’t take the quick way back to the Andrew’s house. He went through the city, if it could have been called a city, and he went to the South.

He watched the snakes. He watched them run like blood— slivers of a lamp post light caught in between the links of a fence; lines on a telephone pole, moving alongside him in the light like waves. And he went looking for trouble.

_ Volatile _ , he thought.  _ I’m feeling volatile. _

And he found trouble.

“Hey,” he had called out to two kids, both in jackets, both talking amongst themselves. They were sheathed daggers, keeping to themselves and chatting idly by a graffiti mural in progress, but Jughead wanted to see that green patch on their leather coats run red. He wanted to be dangerous, to be the animal and the weapon he knew he could be, that his father had told him he was, once, so long ago.

They looked at him as he advanced and they laughed. Maybe they recognized him, but if they did they didn’t comment on it. “What the hell are you doin’?” One of them threw their cigarette to the ground and stomped it out with an iron clad toe.

“Looking for trouble,” he replied, and when he was close enough he curled his fist and swung and felt bones crunch under his hand, just like his father taught him, once, so long ago.

The boy fell, immediately, and the other jumped on him as if a switch was flipped. He reached for Jughead’s throat and found it, grabbing tight and swinging a fist that was barely caught. 

Jughead twisted with all the stretch he had and was sent stumbling to the ground, where the other, who had stood, was waiting and poised. There it was— what Jughead was waiting for, had expected at the very start; a knife, caught briefly in the light. It was beautiful and it was terrifying and it was disgusting and twisted that a boy his own age would pull a knife on someone just like him.

He struck downward and Jughead had enough time to roll, but not enough time to escape. An aim for his stomach, he assumed, met his arm. The pain was immediate and searing, and though it was the first time Jughead had ever seen his own blood on the blade of a knife, the others were undeterred.

He managed to stand and clutched his arm and a boot dug itself into his stomach, blowing him back and nearly making him fall again. His mind was void of all but one thought:

He would need stitches. 

Jughead fucked up. He would need stitches.

He couldn’t get enough air. With every exhale the adrenaline and the rage left him, bit by bit. 

The two boys laughed at him. One of their noses was bleeding, but it was nothing like the fresh sprout on Jughead’s arm. They jeered and glared. “Did you get your  _ fucking _ trouble?”

Jughead turned and bolted. Their jeers followed and bounced off the sides of buildings right into Jughead’s ears and to his mind, but he wasn’t ashamed or humiliated like he felt he should have been. He wasn’t looking to  _ win  _ a fight. He was looking for trouble, whether or not the trouble was worth anything, and he had found it. 

He pumped his arms as he ran until the stretch of his wound couldn’t be ignored anymore— he held it for as long as he could, running and panting and making too much noise for the quiet streets, until he finally had to drop the facade and jog.

It was  _ then _ that he found the trouble he hadn’t wanted to find.

Eventually he had stopped and settled to walk, exhausted and finally feeling the weight of what he’d done catch up to him. His jacket was stained through and his hand, gripping the wound with whatever shaking, wavering strength he had, looked as if it had been dipped in paint. But boys like Jughead weren’t creative. They didn’t paint and they didn’t have the innocence for anything other than blood.

But no one knew this. Not even Betty Cooper, who was standing at the end of her driveway, and who called out his name in the darkness as he drew closer to the Andrews house.

He closed his eyes as soon as he noticed that Betty Cooper was not an ill-timed hallucination, but in fact a real person who was actually  _ talking _ to him. Why wouldn’t he stop  _ fucking up? _

“Jug! That is you.” It was a question, or maybe a concerned statement.

“Yup,” his voice was hoarse, and his legs felt weak, and he pressed his arm close to himself so maybe his shadow would hide the growing stain on his sleeve and how badly he had started to shake. “It’s me.”

“What’re you doing?” She hugged herself closer, wrapped in one of her fluffier cardigans. Her hair was down and she looked like she had just gotten out of the shower. “It’s, like, one in the morning, Jug,” she added, as if neither of them could see how dark it was outside.

“Uh…” He had already screwed it up— any word after would be immediately classified as a lie. It only mattered that Betty would want to play along or not. “I, um, left something at… at Archie’s house. I’m just picking it up.”

Betty just stared at him, calculating and concerned and  _ if another person is concerned about me, if just another goddamn person— _

“Jug—“

“Y’know what?” He was in pain and his arm was starting to drip onto the pavement and if he stood here any longer in the morning there would be a dark pool at the edge of Betty Cooper’s driveway. And, because she was smart and lovely and everything Jughead could never be, Betty Cooper would notice. And she would be concerned— but she was concerned  _ now _ , too. Her eyebrows were drawn together and her eyes were wide and trailing to his arm. And he— well, he wasn’t above begging. Not anymore. “Betty, just— please don’t ask.”

“Jug are...” She took a step forward, and Jughead took a step back and his arm held on harder. She saw him grimace; she saw him slip up  _ again.  _ “Jug, oh my god, are you  _ bleeding? _ ”

“ _ Back off,  _ Betty,” he said, because he still had fangs and he still wanted to cut with them.

“Oh my god, you’re bleeding,” her hand raised to her mouth but she didn’t make another move forward. “Jug, what happened? Are you okay?” She asked, even though, standing in the darkness, they both knew the answer to this. “Is it bad? Why aren’t you at  _ home? _ ”

“I told you not to ask,” he said, because he still had fangs and he still felt volatile. “I’m  _ fine. _ ”

“Fine, I won’t ask,” she responded, a bit of a bite in her wide eyes now, but because she’s Betty Cooper she continued, “But I saw a figure outside my window at one in the morning and it turns out that he’s bleeding and whether or not it was you, I’d still bring you inside and get you  _ help. _ ”

Then he was presented with an option. And he found his eyes drifting to the house behind her, and Betty followed his gaze for just a moment, seeing his dilemma. “My parents aren’t home,” she whispered.

“That’s…”

“Jug, I’m not gonna argue with you and your  _ stupid  _ self sacrificial bullshit.” She sighed, exasperated, and it felt better than being pitied, which helped to make up his mind. “I won’t ask you what happened but I’m not gonna leave you alone.”

They stood there for too long, knowing what was going to happen— knowing what  _ should _ have happened long ago. Yet Jughead, the catalyst, who  _ knew _ he had to make the first move, couldn’t so much as nod. Things were becoming hazy and as soon as Betty had called out his name the full weight of what he had done had hit him and it was unrelenting. This was something that had to be explained, most likely to at least Fred Andrews, and he couldn’t explain it without sounding like he was— 

Well, like he wanted to get into a fight. 

Like he was like his father. Like he was aggressive and wanted to snap. Like he wanted to hurt himself. 

No one had asked for his feelings, not yet. Jughead hadn’t really said a word to Fred Andrews and he simply cried in front of Archie without anything else. Eventually a deeper discussion needed to be had and the threat of this loomed over his head like a cloud— but with this wound he erased the ability for himself to lie. How could he grit his teeth and tell them that things didn’t bother him that much if he had a  _ knife cut _ on his arm? Hell, how could he even convince  _ himself  _ anymore?

That was the problem among many that kept him in his tracks. Betty wouldn’t ask— she never really did— but he would tell her. That’s just how things with Betty Cooper happened. One way or another, she found things out. 

It was useless to stall. 

“So… you would have brought  _ anyone _ inside and given them help?” He smiled, weakly. “That’s an invitation to a serial killer if I ever heard one.”

She could have pitied him. Given him a very Betty Cooper, “ _ aw, Jug _ ” and wrapped him in a hug and bustled him inside. But she was Betty, and she was incredibly smart and cunning, and so she simply rolled her eyes with a forced fond smile and said, “Good thing it ended up being just you, then.”

“What were you doing up?” He asked her, still stuck in the doorway, trying to take off his shoes with one hand. He still had them on from two days ago.

“Uh, y’know,” she replied, turning on the kitchen light before heading to the bathroom. “I’m gonna grab the first aid kit, just take a seat.”

“That’s not really—“

“Reading. Journaling. Stuff,” he heard her rummaging through some cabinets, and he took a careful perch at the kitchen table, trying to very gently remove his coat. He’d have to wash this, somehow, and patch it up before the Andrew’s noticed. This was his only coat. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Jughead nodded, then added, “Me too, I guess.” Every small movement of his arm brought back hot flashes of pain and he thought, sickly, that at least his mind wasn’t focused on the past few days. At least he had somehow created a bigger fish for himself to fry tonight.

Which only got bigger as he managed to peel off his damp coat and heard Betty walk into the room and gasp.

“Oh my  _ god _ .”

Jughead glanced up at her and immediately wished he hadn’t. She looked  _ scared _ and he was tired of people looking at him  _ scared.  _ “Yeah.”

She put the kit down on the table next to him, as well as a towel and a large roll of gauze. “Juggie, that’s going to need stitches. You have to go to the  _ hospital. _ ”

“You know I can’t do that.” Before the words had even left his mouth she was sitting herself in front of him, already digging through the box. He supposed that if anyone had to catch him at night with a stab wound, at least it was Betty.

“Listen, I’ll do what I can, but this is…” She reached out and gently took his arm, not minding the blood that stained her nails. It was only in that moment that he realized he couldn’t remember the last time someone had touched him so gently, like he was some sort of being that had the potential to break. “Jug... what happened?”

He wished it was Archie there. Which was unfair to Betty, who undoubtedly was a more gentle soul than him. Archie hadn’t yet learned to be soft; he showed his love through indignance and through a certain stubbornness that he could fix  _ anyone’s _ problems and that he  _ would _ . Archie wasn’t practiced in touch, but neither was Jughead, and he liked that they shared that. He could learn to be soft for Archie. He  _ would _ learn to be soft for Archie.

Archie would have wanted to be gentle for him, Jughead knew, and in a way that’s why he wanted him there instead; Jughead could  _ handle _ Archie’s awkward comfort. He knew what to do with it and he knew how to navigate it. He knew what it meant through and through.

He couldn’t handle Betty. He couldn’t handle the way her eyes were watery and— and Fred had cried, and so had Archie, but they hadn’t  _ listened _ . He didn’t need to talk and, in a way, it kept everything  _ away  _ from him. 

Which wasn’t the case now. Which was why he told Betty the truth. He wasn’t sure how to do anything but. 

“I… I got into a fight.”

She kept staring. Of course he got into a fight.

He cleared his throat. “Um… it wasn’t really— it was just these two guys, and… I just…” 

_ Why? _

“I don’t know. I wanted to get into a fight, I guess.” And, after a beat, because she wasn’t saying a word, he added, “It wasn’t anything… I just—“

“It’s okay,” she whispered, finally tearing her eyes away from him to pour alcohol on a bit of the towel. “I get it.”

And Jughead looked at her like he hadn’t in a while— really looked at her and knew that she  _ understood _ . She understood, and so did Archie, and maybe so long ago Fred would have understood, too. “I’m sorry,” he told her. “For everything, I guess.” 

Betty’s eyes flicked to his again, emotionless, and she held the damp towel in her hands and gently pressed it to his arm. It stung, as many things had recently, but he grit his teeth and let himself be taken care of. Maybe this is why he had gone out tonight— maybe he was looking for someone to care, someone to  _ see _ his pain; a threat to those who didn’t pay enough attention, a call for help that turned into an angry, feral scream. 

How grotesque of him, he thought.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, because the silence was too loud and he was  _ sorry. _ Why couldn’t he bite his tongue anymore? Why did he cry to Archie last night, why didn’t he lie to Fred Andrews, why was he sitting in front of Betty asking for pity he despised? “I’m sorry I just— I just turned up and you don’t have to do this, but— I don’t know, I’m just…”

Jughead looked up. Betty had withdrawn the towel and held it close to her, like she wanted to bury her face in the bloody folds and let the tears that were falling from her eyes stain it just as red. 

“S-Shut up,” she choked out and effectively sliced his heart in two. So many people he cared about were crying over him lately. “H-how can… how can you…”

Betty shook her head. He saw her swallow, blink, shake her head again.

“Archie c-called me,” Betty reached over and put the towel down, pressing her fingers to her lips like she did when she was too worried over something. “He called me, earlier today.”

The pieces of Jughead’s heart fell and froze, ice running there through his veins. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” she whispered. 

He practically begged himself in that moment to be angry with Archie. But as soon as the idea ran through his head it was snuffed out just as quick. 

Archie didn’t know how to be soft. He needed help. Of course he did.

Betty opened her mouth to speak a few times but with each attempt came more silence, a heavy blanket of nothing that lay on the both of them in the dim kitchen light. He felt like apologizing again, because he was staining her towel and getting his blood under her fingernails, but before he could say anything she was pressed into him, her shaking arms holding him tightly.

“ _ I’m _ sorry,” Betty whispered between tears. She ignored how every moment stiffened him more and just hugged him tighter, as if that could break down every wall he’d built. She laughed, a strangled noise from her mouth, and said, “How  _ dare _ you apologize to me.”

Jughead offered a weak smile buried in her mess of hair and brought his clean arm up, his hand curled to a fist to avoid getting more blood on her. It was a phantom movement, and in that moment he wasn’t sure who was comforting who. Again. “Well, you shouldn’t apologize either.”

She pulled back from him then. Red eyes didn’t suit her well. 

“It’s okay,” he continued and picked up the towel, needing to do something to unstick himself from the unfamiliar feeling of being hugged. He wasn’t aware that it bothered him  _ that _ much, that pouring alcohol over a wound felt a little better than that. “In the nicest way, Betty, it… it wasn’t really any of your business.”

“Of  _ course  _ it’s our business, Jug,” she replied, wiping at her eyes. “Don’t even say that.”

He didn’t have a good response to give her, so he didn’t give her any. 

Betty gave him clothes to change into— a large pair of sweats and a hoodie, the “Sick Betty Cooper Fit”, as she called it. “I’m not going to be sleeping anytime soon,” she said with a sad laugh, holding out her hand from behind the bathroom door. “I’ll wash your stuff.”

A shower and a place to sleep  _ and  _ having his clothes washed was too much. “It’s alright, you don’t have to.”

Her hand open and closed and opened again. “C’mon. Or I steal them and tell Archie.”

That prompted a moment of silence as Jughead felt a shiver run down his body— he hadn’t told her not to—

“Jug, of course I know not to tell Archie.”

A bundle of bloodied clothes were pressed into her hand.

Betty Cooper wasn’t an idiot, and she knew that Archie Andrews wasn’t either.

He could be, sometimes. But when it came to Jughead, he simultaneously knew too much and, somehow, not enough.

She had offered to give Jughead a bed for the night— Polly’s old room was still furnished and the sheets were clean, and with what his arm looked like she didn’t want him to move around any more before getting a little bit of rest, even if it was only to one door down. It felt a little like telling a cat it needed to be herded, but she knew he’d stay for at least two hours. After two hours, a dryer would pop open and he’d change his clothes and be on his way and she knew she could do absolutely nothing about it.

For fifteen minutes of those two hours, Betty stared at her phone.

Archie’s contract was pulled up, her keyboard staring at her expectantly on the screen. She didn’t know what to say. Or even where to start.

The night’s encounter left her with a pounding heart and the habit to burst into tears every three minutes. She knew Jughead wouldn’t tell her anything more, at least not that night. Archie was someone who would talk to her about this.

He had called her earlier that morning and he had almost been in tears too. They had a conversation full of pauses and sniffs and worries and they left the conversation with at least one solid course of action agreed upon: they would not tell Jughead that Betty knew. 

Archie wanted to tell everyone immediately, and Betty was almost on board. He wanted help and he wanted to show Jughead that people  _ cared _ — that people would rally behind him and  _ help _ , in whatever way he wanted and needed. That there was no need to be ashamed of anything. That he was put in a situation he shouldn’t have been and made the most of what he had and he was  _ strong _ for it.

However, the facts came to the realization that it wasn’t their story to tell. Archie wondered if he ever should have called— that it was too invasive and that he was sorry, but he needed  _ help  _ and he needed to talk to someone that wasn’t his father and Betty was the only one he knew that could keep a secret.

“ _ It just… it feels awful, Betty.” _

_ “I know.” _

_ “I just look at him and… I can see him hurting. And it hurts. It hurts so much.” _

_ “I know, Archie, I know.” _

_ “I just want to make it all better for him.” _

So the same Betty Cooper that couldn’t keep Archie’s secret was the same Betty Cooper that couldn’t keep Jughead’s secret. She stared at her phone for fifteen minutes before eventually figuring out what to text Archie.

_ Ive been up thinking about jughead all night. I just cant help but think that hell do something dumb. Please keep an eye on him.  _

It felt like lying. Another ten minutes passed, staring out her dark kitchen window as the washing machine hummed in the other room and the shower ran upstairs, and Betty texted Archie again.

_ Im worried.  _

Another five minutes passed and she wondered when the last time Jughead took a hot shower was and her tears came back all at once.

Jughead didn’t stand a chance— as soon as his head hit Polly’s pillow he was out like a light. 

His cut (which felt like an awful lackluster way to think of it) had reopened slightly in the shower under the butterfly band aids he put on it but, after a bit more pressure and another stained towel, he had managed to stop the bleeding. He couldn’t stop apologizing— a bit of blood had gotten on Betty’s hoodie as well. She shrugged it off and told him to sleep. He needed it.

Had it not been for his exhaustion from the fight, he would have been unable to sleep a wink. Somehow, despite having a satisfied stomach, clean clothes to wear, and a comfortable bed for the night, he felt as though things were more out of control than ever.

His thoughts only granted him four hours of sleep. At 4:22 a.m. he snuck downstairs, changed to his clean clothes, and was out the door before the couch-ridden Betty Cooper could even stir in her sleep. After painstakingly climbing the ladder outside the guest room and managing to not reopen his cut he was back in the Andrew’s residence and back in a room that remained as alien as ever.

The sun was coming up. It felt all wrong to be falling asleep now. 

His arm hurt. Something about replaying the night made it hurt even more— something about seeing Betty Cooper cry in front of him built some sort of structure in his heart and behind his eyes. He hadn’t cried, not like he did in front of Archie, and even though he previously would have applauded himself for this, it felt like a mistake. Like something was supposed to  _ happen _ and it didn’t.

She had cried so much. Archie had called her yesterday morning. Jughead was slowly losing his grip on things, one by one, and with each thread pulled from his fingers he felt himself gradually becoming undone.

He felt like he wanted to scream. Yet now he had a terrifying proof to think of— he  _ had  _ screamed. He had gotten into a fight, and he had bled, and it hadn’t made him feel better at all.

Jughead opened his phone, kept away on the night table from the night’s events, and sent Betty a quick text before staring at his ceiling until the sun rose and he caught up with the moon.

_ Thank you,  _ it read. _ Please dont tell archie.  _

He was woken up four hours later by a knock on his door.

The smell of scrambled eggs and the sounds of a muffled radio station bled into the room. It was almost as if nothing had happened— as if last night he had cried in front of Archie and Fred had cried in front of him and somehow, through it all, he had never changed his clothes. 

Today, however, his arm stung and his sleeve barely hid the pale brown bandages. 

Today he had two texts from Betty Cooper— one from 5:00 a.m., the other from 8:00 a.m..

_ It doesn’t have to be anytime soon, but eventually Id like to know everything. Please dont do this again. _

Jughead sighed. That wasn’t really his choice to make anymore, was it?

_ If u dont tell me, ill find out myself. _

He had enough time to text her back “ _ i know” _ before the door was opened and in walked Fred Andrews.


	8. Chapter 8

Jughead sat across from Fred Andrews as the whole household ate a buffet-style breakfast of toast, eggs, sausages, and bacon. The radio played softly, leading into the ambience of a tradition so familiar and mundane. Every so often Fred would comment on the day’s event and Archie would reply— they talked briefly about getting a break change for the truck and if it was possible to do it at home (it was) and they talked about the weather and whether they could take Vegas to the park (they could) and they talked about if it rained last night like the weather report predicted (it didn’t).

The tradition waned. Like a well orchestrated piece with inexperienced players, things became a bit too out of place to feasibly ignore. 

Jughead had learned to take things for advantage since their last breakfast morning together. He piled too much on his plate to seduce the memory to further reality. He refilled his coffee three times before Archie had even finished half of his. Jughead’s arm stung horribly and it rested under his sleeve like a secret— or, perhaps, like a conversation that needed to be had but wasn’t.

The morning went on. His arm burned. No one directed a question to him.

It wasn’t in any malicious spirit, Jughead could tell, but that didn’t mean it was courteous. It held the air of two people leaving a third to their space— and they could use that space however they wanted, whether that implied recovering or imploding.

Fred didn’t know how to broach the subject. Archie sure as hell didn’t, either. And the conversation, though absolutely necessary, was one that Jughead never wanted to have in his entire life.

But the silence, the almost-awkward avoidance of  _ anything  _ relating to what had happened, was making him nauseous.

Anger was the primary emotion that came to him then— it was so awfully easy to be angry. How could Fred Andrews take him in and initiate  _ all  _ of this, yet not be able to follow through? How could Archie see him cry so hard the other night and bare his soul and still  _ say nothing? _

_ Was no one else bothered by this? _

Had they  _ finally  _ seen his pain and, somehow, not  _ cared _ ?

Was this just how it was now? He would live with them, but for  _ how long? _ This wasn’t permanent and they were all fools to leave the conditions open ended. 

Thoughts ran around his head, all contradictory and so overpowering that he put his fork down mid-bite, all the food that had been damn near irresistible suddenly disgusting and too much. They needed to  _ talk  _ about these things and having this silence was making his hands shake but, at the same time, he couldn’t bear to hear any more pity or bad news— yet that’s all he seemed to want, wasn’t it? 

He wanted pity; he wanted everyone to leave him alone. He wanted sympathy and to talk about  _ everything _ ; he wanted to scream and walk back out into the night and come back with something bigger than a scrape. He wanted to talk; he never wanted to speak to either of them ever again. He wanted compassion; he wanted everything but.

At least he had learned to navigate his father. At least he learned that even though he wanted to scream, right there in the middle of such a sacred ritual, he had learned that you  _ never  _ interrupt and you  _ never  _ question a nicety that had been handed to you in desperate times.

Or perhaps it was the other way around. Perhaps everyone had an ulterior motive.

Perhaps it was their pity that motivated them to be kind to him when, up until now, they hadn’t  _ noticed;  _ and, if they had, they  _ hadn’t cared. _

“Jug?”

His eyes snapped up. Archie was staring at him expectantly. The radio was off.

He looked to Fred, who was also looking at him expectantly. Archie didn’t say anything, waiting for him.

“What?” 

Archie gave a halfhearted laugh and exchanged a look with Fred that said too many things for Jughead to think of. “We’ve, uh, been callin’ you for a bit.”

“Oh, I…” And when the time came, his tongue dried up.  _ Of course.  _ They hadn’t noticed, but Jughead hadn’t asked for help, had he? “Sorry.”

“It’s fine— did you get any of that?”

“Uh, no.”

“Archie and I have to run a few errands,” Fred announced for the second time. “Do you want to come?”

“ _ What? _ ” The question was so mundane, so far from what Jughead had been thinking about, that he couldn’t help but be stunned for a moment.  _ Errands? _ At a time like  _ this _ ? Why the hell would he want to go do errands, like he had Archie are ten years old again and unable to be left home alone?

“I said—“

“No I— I’m sorry—I got it,” Jughead shook his head, trying to clear the disbelief.  _ Errands.  _ It was just like he was afraid of— nonchalance. Weird, nauseating, anxiety-inducing nonchalance to the situation. 

Of  _ course  _ he didn’t want to run goddamn errands. The absolute last thing in the world he wanted to do was go out in public and introduce the possibility of talking to  _ anyone _ . He didn’t want to sit in the backseat of Fred’s truck (because Archie always got shotgun) and listen to the radio and go to the fucking supermarket and buy groceries or whatever the fuck. He wanted absolutely  _ none _ of that whatsoever, and he was only a hair away from cursing out Fred and Archie for assuming that he would. 

Fucking errands.  _ Errands. _

The backseat of Fred’s truck was much smaller than he remembered it. 

After he hadn’t answered Fred in a solid minute, Fred had clapped his hands, smiled, stood, and said that everyone had ten minutes to get ready— as if Jughead had confirmed that yes, he did want to go run errands with Fred Andrews and Archie.

That’s when Jughead really understood that this wasn’t an optional thing. It wasn’t a lighthearted offer to go and do something to alleviate boredom. These errands pertained to  _ him. _ Somehow.

Somehow  _ this  _ was going to equate to— or stand in place of— the conversation they should have had.

Jughead was the first out of the kitchen and up the stairs, because he had come to a very sudden realization that he never wanted to be alone with Fred Andrews ever again. He  _ needed _ to talk about things to Fred, even though the very thought took his breath away and ran his hands cold, but he also had an intrinsic knowledge that he could never have that conversation without Archie present.

He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t actually Archie in particular that he needed there. He tried to reason that it was really just the thought that he needed  _ someone else _ , whoever that someone else was. Archie was just the reasonable next step.

Jughead had clammed up that night on the couch with Fred Andrews. There were no more secrets between the two of them— Fred essentially knew the worst thing that he could possibly accidentally figure out about Jughead. All the power rested back with Jughead again; all the gritty details of his life were exclusive to him and him alone. There was  _ nothing  _ that Fred could bring up that would shock Jughead anymore.

That’s what Jughead told himself. Yet he still couldn’t stomach the thought of having another quiet, secluded conversation with him.

Archie wasn’t far behind him, knocking on the guest door awkwardly and offering a change of clothes. Unbeknownst to him, Jughead’s clothes (or, rather, the ones he was wearing) were clean. So, to keep up the rouse (and  _ only  _ to keep up the rouse), Jughead got changed into a three year old hoodie and jeans.

Looking in the small mirror on his dresser, the clothes, specifically the hoodie, was so familiar it was unnerving. It was a washed out red with a small logo on the sleeve cuff. Archie had bought it at some small thrift store and for three years Jughead had tried his absolute hardest to steal it whenever possible. Archie always claimed, despite the fact that Jughead would never purposefully buy clothes that weren’t some shade of black, that he could never remember who actually bought the hoodie, since it resided at his house but Jughead wore it far more often than him.

Jughead knew it would always belong to Archie. It smelled like him.

As he tried to make himself look as presentable as possible, he noticed that though he had grown taller since he last wore the hoodie, it looked larger on him. That was the thought that finally propelled him to quickly go downstairs and recoup with the Andrews. 

The truck was the same. It always was and always would be. Quarters and dimes and pennies made a minefield on the floor of the backseat. Fred Andrews had told him, many years ago, that change on the floor was a good luck thing. Jughead was pretty sure that was a thing he had made up so that whoever sat shotgun could have fun chucking coins at the backseat. 

Because sometimes Jughead had sat in the front seat. Sometimes he would whip a quarter at the back window and Fred would pass him another for a second shot. It seemed impossible to think of, but there was a time that Jughead wasn’t afraid of comfortable silence with Fred.

Even though Archie was riding along in the front seat, taking up most of Fred’s attention, Jughead was still grateful for the car radio playing softly.

They stopped at a general store first. Jughead wasn’t really sure what they were looking to get— he immediately branched off on his own, slipping away before Fred and Archie could pause their conversation and notice.

He didn’t go far and he didn’t have an objective. It was more an aimless wandering through the isles that he partook in. Something about the domesticity of shopping with Fred Andrews and Archie was too much; it stirred inside him that feeling that he still didn’t know how to name. 

The unknown name of this feeling fueled aggravation which turned into anger. And Jughead was so awfully tired of being angry.

Of course, he was tired all around. He’d gotten a fair amount of sleep, and for the first time in a very long while he wasn’t hungry, but he  _ had  _ gotten into a knife fight just last night and that wasn’t a thing one could easily sleep off. If he wasn’t focused on his anger, he was focused on that; he’d never really done something so impulsive and  _ stupid _ . As much as it was inconsequential and meant nothing, it also felt like something that he should hide until the cut faded away. He had to be conscious to not pull up his sleeves. It was, in its own hideous way, almost like a game. Some sort of challenge that he could focus on instead of thinking about anything else.

It also felt… validating in a way that he knew it shouldn’t have been. 

The thought made him angry at himself. No matter where he turned, what topic he focused on, somehow it all led to  _ anger _ . Anger at everything; himself, the Andrews, his father,  _ life _ .

He’d once read that anger was a “secondary emotion”. Anger was a  _ result _ of another emotion, not really an initial reaction of a situation. If this was true, Jughead had no idea what his anger could have been covering.

Perhaps that feeling was the same feeling whose name alluded him. 

Eventually he met back up with the Andrews in the checkout line. He ignored the relieved looks on their faces.

They went to a grocery store as their second stop. This time, Jughead wasn’t being left out of Archie’s sight.

Fred had suggested they wander around and pick out some snacks. “After all,” he had said, “I don’t really know what you like anymore, Jug.”

Which was apparently supposed to be a joke. Jughead laughed, even though he really had no idea what he liked anymore, either. There wasn’t exactly a snack bar for homeless people; Jughead liked what he could scavenge. Simple enough.

This wasn’t, however, a thing that he could tell Fred Andrews or Archie. They were funny this way; they had said they wanted to know “everything” whenever Jughead was ready (or, rather, Fred had said so), but Jughead had the strong feeling that this wasn’t true. They  _ didn’t  _ want to know everything. They wanted to know what  _ they _ wanted to know, which didn’t include the grittier details of a life lived in a sleeping bag. 

Nor did it include dumpster diving in dark alleys. Or finding food, barely touched but not  _ untouched _ , and wondering if it was worth the risk.

Towards the end of things, the food had started to become more and more worth it. Which was disgusting, and the first time that Jughead ever ate something like that he nearly threw it up just as quick. He had set a rule for himself; if it looked like only a single bite was taken, then it was fair game, and he would eat around the bite. It didn’t actually matter that much, as he  _ had _ found the food in a dumpster regardless, but it made him feel a little bit better if he suspended his disbelief. 

These were all things that the Andrews did not want to know.

So Jughead forced a halfhearted laugh at Fred’s halfhearted joke and set off with Archie.

It was their first time being alone since the day that Jughead slept through. It was going to be their first real conversation, alone, since the day Jughead was cajoled into joining the Andrews household.

Being in public somehow helped his nerves. And it was  _ Archie _ , who Jughead was willing to (on a rational note, without anger) believe genuinely hadn’t noticed his living situation before. Archie, whom he had wished was with him instead of Betty last night. Archie, whom he would have given up anything to be with these past few months.

It was awful that things had worked out this way. For so long he held this fantasy, tucked away in the back of his mind so he didn’t think much of it, that one day the Andrews would notice everything. That Archie would come riding in, his knight in shining armor, and save the day. Save  _ him. _

It had come true, in a way that Jughead hadn’t wanted. Being afraid of being alone with Archie wasn’t part of the plan.

He hadn’t accounted for how awkward walking through a grocery store with someone could get.

“Could we count coffee as a snack?” He tried to joke, after two minutes of deafening silence and wandering through the frozen foods section. Spending Fred Andrew’s money was another thing he was deeply uncomfortable with.

“I don’t think that counts as food, Jug.”

If Archie had meant to joke back with  _ that _ , it hadn’t worked.

“Just…” Jughead sighed. Why was  _ everything  _ and every interaction  _ something? _ Fine— Archie and Fred didn’t want to explicitly talk about anything. Jughead was as much in that boat as he wasn’t, so avoiding any serious topic was good on his books. But could Archie at least  _ pretend  _ to be a better actor? “Throwin’ that out there, I guess.” 

They wanted a few more minutes in silence. Archie didn’t even look at anything. Neither of them had a basket.

“So…” Jughead tried, again, because dead air had grown to become dangerous recently and made his hands shake. “How’s Veronica been?”

That seemed to earn Archie’s attention. His eyes snapped from watching a toddler in a shopping to cart to Jughead’s face. ‘What?”

Jughead shrugged. “Veronica?”

“What about her?”

“I don’t know. How is she?” He’d seen her and Archie exchange a few lingering glances. Jughead really didn’t peg her as Archie’s type— she was too  _ play by the books _ for him— but he did like her in general. Even if they really didn’t have anything in common and barely talked. 

“Um… good?” Archie paused. ‘Why?”

_ Because I feel like starting shit. Because I want to talk about literally anything.  _ “I don’t know.” He sighed, turning down another isle. He couldn’t really bring himself to look at Archie— brutal honesty was a fun challenge, but he wasn’t too good at it yet. “Because besides everything that’s happened in the past few days, I have no idea what to talk to you about and I’m not about to comment on the weather.”

Archie laughed beside him, as if he couldn’t hear Jughead’s heart pounding. “So you— uh— want to talk about  _ Veronica? _ ”

“What? I like her. I want to know how she’s— y’know— adjusting to ‘small town life’ or whatever.” He chanced a quick look at Archie. This was pure torture, but it was a different kind of torture than the one he’d been living through recently, so he’d take it. “Besides, aren’t you two sort of…?”

Archie, bless him, took a few seconds to think. It was in these few seconds that Jughead was able to wonder about what the  _ hell  _ he thought he was doing and exactly  _ why  _ he was doing it. “Okay. She’s ‘adjusting’. She’s…. smart. It— It’s not an issue, I don’t think. Her. Being here.”

It was like listening to nails on a chalkboard, but Archie kept going.

“I— I mean, on— on her end. Y’know? She’s— She’s not really—“

“Fine, okay, jeez. Veronica’s great. Let’s talk about something else, then. What brilliant topic do you have to offer?”

It was supposed to be a joke, but a quick glance showed Archie looking almost offended.  _ Great. _ Another wrong and brilliant step by Jughead Jones in the social department.

“Well… I don’t know. How are you?”

_ Wouldn’t you want to know _ , Jughead wanted to spit.  _ Aren’t you supposed to know? Aren’t I supposed to be your run-of-the-mill charity case? Don’t you have thoughts about me that I don’t know about? _

If this was the conversation that needed to be had, Archie was doing a terrible job of starting it.

“As fine as I can be, right?” Jughead opted for instead, not missing how Archie flinched. He wasn’t even sure what that meant, or could imply. Social awkwardness aside, the Andrews hadn’t done anything  _ wrong _ . Despite everything, did they not house him? Given him food?

Wasn’t it selfish of him to be a choosing beggar?

“I’m… fine,” Jughead amended quickly, looking anywhere but Archie. God, why had he even  _ said  _ that? “Sorry. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“You didn’t?” Is all Archie says, flatly, then adds after a moment, “I heard you leave.”

“Oh.”

There’s a taboo that’s broken— a line that’s crossed— as Archie reaches out and stops Jughead with a gentle hand on his arm. Jughead paused, right in the middle of the supermarket, and tried to avoid looking at Archie’s face. He knew what he’d see if he looked.

“Jug, I…” 

“What do you expect me to  _ do _ , Archie?” Jughead interrupted, the well of anger that had been building inside him threatening to spill from his throat and burn Archie like a fire. “What do you want me to say? Because I’d like to have the fucking script, if you have it.” 

And the well of fire dies as Archie rises and takes the bait. Archie’s rage was something that scared Jughead sometimes; it reared so rarely, so quick and explosive like a firework. He’d never been on the receiving end of it, but now, though Archie’s grip stayed soft, Archie looked angry. He looked  _ tired.  _ “So would  _ I _ , Jug. Don’t you  _ get _ that?”

Jughead was glad no one looked their way. He felt dangerously small in that moment under Archie’s glare.

“Jughead, just— just  _ talk  _ to me, okay?  _ Tell  _ me things— tell me when you’re going to sneak out, alright?”

His hand falls and the cut on Jughead’s arm throbs. “I…”

“Listen, I’ll— I get it, okay? But next time you leave, please let me know.” Archie paused, the firework in his eyes dissipated into a night sky. All that was left was concern. And that tired, tired look. “I’ll come with you. Next time. Okay?”

It was shockingly considerate— it molded Jughead to the spot. Someone walked by them, oblivious to whatever was happening. 

Jughead wanted to be that person, in that moment, more than anything. 

“I’m sorry,” he eventually whispered. 

Archie looked like he wanted to say something further or move or reach back out and cross that bridge, that unspoken barrier, just one more time. Yet after a few moments of silence all he did was close his eyes and shake his head. “Me too.”

It was the conversation Jughead had been dreading, and somehow it was even worse than he had expected. But as they unglued themselves to their spots, finally walking back down the isles and catching up with the current of time, Jughead found that the miasma of silence that flowed in the air around them wasn’t nearly as painful as it had been before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So like was anyone else not expecting half of this chapter to happen in a fucking shop rite because i for sure didn’t expect it


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all!  
Shorter chapter today just because it’s been sitting in my documents fully written and i just want to throw something out there to feel productive. I was going to have this chapter be much longer, but i guess now it’ll just be split in two parts. To be completely honest, i’ve been stumped with this fic for a while. I’ve written it paralleled off an experience i had a while ago and it’s definitely helped me realize a few things about myself and that experience, but the main one being that experiences like these just kinda.... stick around. It’s been four years since my event and i still think about it every day and the thoughts are the same as they were on day one. Which i’ve Certainly tried to outline in this fic— the repetitive nature of these things, and how it’s very easy to blame yourself for “not being over it”. But... i can’t exactly write chapters of the same shit over and over with nothing happening. So i want to start to angle this more towards Jughead & archie getting together and helping each other through their own problems (i’m Lookin @ you, riverdale writers, for pretending Mrs Grundy was an easy think to forget and ignore) and overall just being cute and in love. Odds are if you relate to this fic you’ll know that people dont just get an “archie” out of the blue to help you and be there for you, but fuck it. I know i want to read some shit about how things go right for once, especially these days.  
Anyway! That was super long. But thank you all for reading, i hope y’all are doin the best you can right now <3

School became useless. So did reading, scrolling through social media, eating, and playing with Vegas— which was all Jughead really did anymore.

His first Monday back after being accepted as the new Andrews was spent on autopilot. Numbly he went from class to class— the red math book, the purple history book, the blue science book, all crammed together and tucked away in a dark corner of his mind.

With every blink and every sigh and every glance at the clock, Jughead thought about what had transpired over the past few days. He thought about how he was going to go to the Andrews’ home that night and he was supposed to call it his own. Every prolonged gaze out of a window lead him right back to the living room and in front of a crying man, his voice caught in his throat just as much as it had been that night.

Obsession kept his thoughts running in a circle. He thought about Archie, going through almost the exact same school day. He thought about Betty, who he hadn’t talked to since he showed up at the edge of her driveway, dripping blood as red as a waving flag. 

He skipped lunch and opted to slip away from the grounds instead. The unspoken words that he imagined floating around their usual lunch table suffocated him. Even the potential of a prolonged look or a comforting hand on his shoulder made him pray for a black hole to swallow him up and spit him right out into oblivion.

Jughead almost didn’t go back to school after he left for his lunch period. But the alternative was going back to the Andrews house and even though he was sure Fred was at work, he couldn’t risk a single moment alone with him at all, which was a thought that crawled up and down his arm like a poisonous centipede. 

Had he ever even told Fred Andrews  _ thank you _ yet?

Because Fred Andrews was housing him. He took him in with the selflessness that Jughead had always thought was reserved for saints in stories. He bought him new clothes and food to eat and gave him an entire room. There was a blow up mattress that Jughead  _ knew  _ was sitting unused in the attic and yet he was given an entire  _ room _ . 

Jughead despised his pity, but what kind of a man would Fred be if he  _ didn’t  _ pity him? If not pity, what did Jughead want? What else was there for a situation like this?

If he thought about it, and  _ fuck _ did he think about it, Jughead was really the only one making a problem here. Jughead, who turned to sharp bites and knife fights instead of just  _ having a conversation _ . His thoughts were rafts carried by heinous and insidious anger that had no source and no end and nowhere to go. How could he be angry at the Andrews for not noticing his situation and his pain when that’s what he only ever wanted? That was the only reason he kept trying every single day; every five o’clock phone alarm and every sly trip to the school showers and every dirty, cold lie was to deter everyone from him. How could he be angry that his plan  _ worked? _

Maybe it was because he was his father’s son. Maybe this is what it meant to be a bad person. Bad people existed off instinct and maybe the instinct was anger. 

His mind was a carousel of anger and thoughts and worries and fears. 

It was exhausting.

He went to the Andrews’ house after school. He walked upstairs and placed his backpack in the corner—  _ when was the last time he actually used his backpack for school purposes like this? Shouldn’t he—  _ and sat down on the bed. No one stopped him. 

Archie had practice after school. Jughead sighed, unable to take his faraway gaze from his backpack. Why had he come to the house? This was where Fred Andrews was. Didn’t he have anywhere else he could have wandered to? He certainly did. It was stupid to think he could have come back here so easily. He should have waited. At least until Archie was back from practice and the house was safer. 

Any moment Fred could come home. Gentle Fred, kind Fred, who only wanted to help. Who wanted to wrap him up in his arms and tell him things would be alright.

_ His backpack looked awful empty. What if Fred comes home? Fred will come home, and he’ll try to talk to Jughead again— just think, can’t you hear it now? The footsteps up the stairs, a gentle knock on the door— everything gentle and soft, everything you are not— _

Obsession, he thought, as the lazy river of his thoughts took him from “homework” to “I’m homeless”. He’d thought about this entire situation  _ all day _ .

Did Archie think about him that much? Was Fred at work staring blankly out a window, wondering what to do about Jughead? Hell, did  _ Betty  _ bite her nails with worry when she should have been doing her laundry?

He doubted it. He doubted anyone but himself was thinking this much about everything— about the anger and the unspoken conversations. Everyone… everyone had seemed to move on, and shouldn’t he as well? What was there to dwell on anymore? Fred had given him a place to stay and he was no longer homeless and he had food to eat and didn’t have to pay a single dime for any of it. 

Yet, despite all this, he felt like a stain on the Andrews home. He wasn’t meant to stay, no matter how many things were piled on top of him to satiate him. No given room or bought clothes could erase the discomfort that sat so fixated within him— this was borrowed time and borrowed thoughtfulness. He would run his course; he was not permanent. Never had been and never would be.

He could run again. He could always run away— that much he had proved to himself as a concrete fact. Nothing held him tied to this place. Not Fred, nor the clothes he bought, nor the food that stocked the pantry. Not even Archie could get Jughead to stay anywhere. 

But even the thought of Archie’s hand on his arm, so strong and steady,  _ pleading  _ him to stay, caused him to pause. And the pause created a rift that was immediately flooded with images and phrases and things that made him close his eyes and grab at the sleeves of his shirt.

He was given a home and the first thing he wanted to do was throw it away.

So why didn’t he?

Jughead tried to reaffirm himself with thoughts of leaving. That nothing could have stopped him if he  _ really  _ wanted to throw it away. Living on the streets was an awful existence, one that he wouldn’t wish upon anyone, but he had  _ known  _ it. He had figured out the places to sleep and the people to avoid and the times to disappear. There was comfort there that he had never noticed, only evident to him now from the stark contrast of a home to a sleeping bag. There was a routine and a ritual to follow and if anything deviated, he would be the only one to deal with the fallout.

Nobody pitied him. He was amongst people like him; people at the bottom of the barrel, scraping rock bottom and pretending that there was value in the color of a sleeping bag. Constructed vanity that was frowned upon but understood. People looking hungrily at a clean shirt because they couldn’t even fathom themselves worrying about what real people do.

“Real” people. Because he hadn’t been real, not for a long time. Real people had interests and wants and ambitions. Real people didn’t wake up smelling beer and thinking of angry, drunken words long forgotten to the speaker.

For  _ months  _ he didn’t think about anything. He couldn’t pause or take a moment to absorb anything. It was all hitting him now, all at once, and he couldn’t stop it.

Maybe that was why he didn’t leave the Andrews. He was tired. Horribly exhausted. The kind that sleep couldn’t get rid of. He didn’t want to be there but he was too  _ tired  _ to run.

So what  _ could  _ he do?

He could text Archie. Or Betty. 

No, not Betty. She didn’t need this, not on top of everything she already tried to handle alone. 

He was calling Archie before his mind could catch up with how idiotic an idea that was.

“ _ Jug? Hey, Jug, what’s up? _ ”

Jughead floundered for a few moments. Picked at the lint on his pants, tried to calm his racing heart. What  _ was _ up? “I— Uh—“

“ _ Is everything okay? _ ”

Jughead laughed weakly. “Um, yeah, I— I’m not dying, anyway.”

“ _ Um… okay? _ ”

“Yeah, I, uh…” God, the guilt was already biting at his heels, but he had to keep going. He promised Archie he’d do this if the feeling to run away ever came back. He was almost nauseous just looking at all the schoolwork spilling out of his backpack. Absently he got up from the bed and started to pull out all the papers, keeping them well organized and in neat piles on the floor. “W-Well, um, you don’t have to— uh— come with me or anything, but you said that… uh…”

He sighed and could hear himself echoed in the background of the call. “I’m gonna be out. For the afternoon. I think.”

Archie was silent for a long moment. Jughead started repacking his backpack with the clothes that Fred hadn’t bought him. Already things felt more secure like this— he’d never removed his socks from the little compartment they sat in, and they felt like the cherry on top as he was able to zip in his jeans and shirts. 

“ _ Okay, _ ” Archie eventually said. “ _ Uh, if you’ll give me like— like five minutes I’ll be home. _ ”

Five minutes. “Aren’t you in the middle of practice?”

“ _ Yeah, you’re right. Make it seven. I’ll shower. _ ”

Arguing with Archie was always a useless endeavor, but that isn’t what made Jughead smile and sit back on his heels, his heart a bit calmer. It was a few things that soothed him; a few roots of a tree all flowing to the same trunk. Jughead was a far cry away from ever deserving someone like Archie Andrews, but having someone like Archie Andrews meant that he was never going to be alone.

People were less likely to jump you when you were with someone else on the streets. Or catcall you. Or make comments. Or look at you funny.

And he was planning on coming back to the house anyway. This was going to be less of a “running away” thing and more of a walk through the neighborhood. After all, if Fred saw that he was missing then he’d probably want to get the cops involved, which was the last thing Jughead wanted. Archie was collateral. 

Collateral. Of course. A disgusting way to think about someone who cared about him so much, but a way nonetheless.

As it turned out, he was dependable collateral as well. Exactly five minutes later the front door opened and Vegas set off and Jughead grabbed his backpack, slinging it over his shoulders and practically running downstairs.

Archie smiled up at him from the doorway. He seemed genuinely happy, which made Jughead’s heart flip in unintelligible ways.

“You didn’t shower.”

Archie was already busy throwing his backpack into the living room and grabbing Vegas’ collar. “Didn’t have time.”

His shirt was still clinging to him with sweat. Archie truly looked as if he had quit practice mid run. He must have argued with the coach in order to show up so quick. “Was traffic that bad?” Jughead said, instead of  _ thank you _ , because he was just so wonderful with emotions that way.

Archie just looked back up at him with a puff of a laugh. 


End file.
